Tempora Abducto
by Flaignhan
Summary: Inconveniently it's the things that need fixing the most which are often irreparable.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Unsure of where this is heading, but the same went for Eclairs and Restricted so fingers crossed you guys like this one too. Let me know what you think!

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**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

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For the second time that day, Harry Potter died.

And for the second, miraculous time, Harry Potter regained consciousness.

As he lay on the cold hard floor of the Great Hall, his cheekbone feeling as though it had shattered when he fell to the ground, his face having impacted on the flag stones with considerable force, it occurred to him that there was a great deal of noise around him.

Specifically, the sounds of screaming pierced his ear drums like sharpened kebab skewers, relentless, unyielding, and terrible. There was also a high pitched cackle lost amongst the screams, which were worse than any he had heard in his life. Harry Potter would be the first to admit that he had heard too many terrible screams in his life.

For the second time in two months, Harry Potter was hearing the sounds of Hermione Granger being tortured.

As his senses began to sharpen he could make out the sounds of Ron, yelling, his throat clogged with tears as he begged them to leave her, take him instead, stop before it was too late. There were gentle sobs nearby, and had he not let his eyes open just a crack, he would not have known that Ginny Weasley was being detained by Fenrir Greyback, her face pale, her wand held tightly in the werewolf's overly hairy hand. It was a picture that made Harry feel sick. It was the picture of Ginny Weasley without hope, without any fight in her. Ginny Weasley had given up.

Why was nobody fighting? Why was nobody helping Hermione? Harry tried to move, but all he could manage was a slight fidget. His body seemed sluggish. Considering he had just died for the second time in an hour, it wasn't unreasonable for his body to be unresponsive, but surely he could manage something? Surely he could help his best friend?

Something gently came into contact with his stomach. Tilting his head slightly and opening his eyes ever so slightly, he saw a wand. Looking up to the crowd of people nearby, he saw Oliver Wood, big, burly and not quite broken just yet. There was a glint in his eyes that Harry associated with quidditch finals, a glint that said 'it's not over until the Fat Lady destroys our eardrums with her infamous rendition of Ave Maria.'

Moving his arm very cautiously, careful not to alert anyone to the fact that there was still air in his lungs, blood pumping through his veins and determination in every inch of him to deal with Lord Voldemort once and for all. He took the wand in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the slightly splintering wood, relishing in the warm feeling that seemed to replenish his energy somewhat.

He looked up at Oliver, who was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Zacharias Smith was staring wide eyed in his direction, and Ernie MacMillan, who had also noticed Harry's minuscule movements, swallowed a gasp and pinched Zacharias on the side, in an attempt to get him to shut his gaping mouth.

The screams had come into more focus now, and Harry fought against memories of Malfoy Manor. They thought that had been the end for them there and then, but Dobby, brave Dobby...

Harry swallowed and kept watch on Oliver, waiting for the moment when he would be able to get a clear shot. After a moment, Oliver raised his chin slightly, in a half nod.

With more speed than Harry had thought his aching body was capable of, he twisted around so he was facing Voldemort. Hermione was floating in the air, her screams raw as her body jerked and twisted in clear view of all in the Great Hall. This was a lesson – Mudblood friends of Harry Potter were not tolerated, and deserved to be punished.

Before Voldemort had even noticed Harry's movement, he shot a spell at him, the first spell that came into his head. It could have been _Wingardium Leviosa_ for all he remembered of his thought process, but the deep cut which severed the chest of Voldemort's robes and the milky white skin underneath said otherwise.

Hermione fell to the floor as the sound of wands being drawn filled the hall. She shook uncontrollably, oblivious to the events which were unfolding around her, unaware that her best friend was a live and Lord Voldemort was injured.

Voldemort's red eyes met Harry's green ones, both holding expressions of shock. The deep wound was mended by some quick and expert usage of the Elder Wand and Harry's heart sank. The only curse that Voldemort wouldn't be able to fix was _Avada Kedavra _and Harry had never cast that before in his life, had never planned to, had naively hoped that it would not come to that. But it had, and he wasn't ready. As Barty Crouch Junior had said in his fourth year, he probably wouldn't be able to cause a nose bleed.

"On your feet then, Harry, you don't want to die on your knees like your pitiful father did, do you?" the hissing remark, designed solely to torment him did the job that Harry's lack of self confidence made so difficult.

He got to his feet and using the borrowed wand from Oliver sent every single spell in Voldemort's direction that he could think of, blocking the ones Voldemort sent his way, dodging those too powerful to block and praying they didn't hit anybody behind him. Fights began to break out all over the Great Hall – even those without wands used their fists against the Death Eaters. Ron had run forward, his sole mission to remove Hermione from harm's way.

It was all interrupted by a resounding crash that shook the entire building. Seconds later, there were mutterings as people began to move apart to create a route through the crowd. It seemed someone new had arrived and for a foolish, childish and desperate moment, Harry thought it might be Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore could cause people to part like that. Only Dumbledore commanded that amount of respect from all the wizarding world.

Only Dumbledore could stop this battle in its tracks by his mere entrance alone.

Harry's heart sank when he saw a man with dark hair, neatly pressed robes and a fixed expression on his pale, slightly haughty face. He looked to be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. The only signs of age were the very few creases around his grey eyes.

Lord Voldemort's red eyes widened as the man strode towards Ron, who had Hermione cradled in his arms, still shaking and sobbing. Nobody moved when he pointed his wand at her, Ron jerked slightly, as though to move away, to shield her, but was stopped by the look on the man's face. The man muttered a few quiet words and Hermione stopped shaking. Her only movement was the slow and steady rise and fall of her ribcage as she breathed deeply.

He then turned to Voldemort. "You go too far."

"I think _I_ will decide what 'too far' is. You are weak, you give up easily, what have you done with your life?"

"Plenty," he smirked, "now how about you stop torturing school children and come and play with the big boys for a change?"

Voldemort laughed arrogantly and raised his wand. Ginny, who had freed herself from Greyback in the scuffle during Harry and Voldemort's duel, moved forward and took Harry's hand in her own, puling him backwards to the safety of the crowd.

"What's he doing here?" she whispered.

Harry's response was cut off by the loud bang which signalled that the first curse had been fired. Nobody dared move as the two men (though one more monster than man) battled it out in the centre of the Great Hall amongst the broken tables, fallen candles, shattered glass and bodies of the unlucky ones who hadn't quite been quick enough to save their skins.

Harry couldn't even compare it to the battle between Voldemort and Dumbledore at the Ministry. Magic oozed from every atom in the Great Hall and people stared wide eyed and slack jawed as Lord Voldemort started to sweat, furiously working to keep the flurry of spells at bay.

He had no idea what it would mean, should the dark haired man win. It was impossible that he was here, now, and Harry could only hope that they finished each other off. There was no denying it, the man fighting Lord Voldemort was Tom Marvolo Riddle. How this was possible, Harry had no idea. What Riddle had done to Hermione, he had no idea – Ron hadn't seemed worried once the spell had been cast. If anything, Riddle seemed to have _helped _her.

He edged around the crowd, holding onto Ginny's hand tightly, yanking her down to the floor when a stray curse headed towards them. Finally they reached Ron, who had taken shelter with Hermione behind a table which was resting on its side.

"You all right?" Harry asked. Though his voice was drowned out by another explosion, Hermione understood and gave him a weak nod.

There was an almighty clang and high pitched tinkling of breaking glass – a chandelier had come crashing down on Riddle, trapping him against the ground as he sent a complicated spell in Voldemort's direction. His wand flew from his hand, sending the spell shooting towards one of the walls, which began to crack from top to bottom, heavy lumps of stone tumbling down onto the floor, resisting levitation and freezing charms. He was using the dark arts, that was certain.

Taking advantage of Riddle's momentary inability to continue with duel, Voldemort turned towards the table which Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were hiding behind. The table flew up into the air and dissolved into dust with one lazy wave of Voldemort's wand. Instead of pointing his wand at Harry – whether this was because he realised now that he would have some difficulty killing him, Harry did not know – he pointed it at Hermione. Ron dove in front of her but was thrown back against the wall by another arrogant and casual flick of the Elder Wand.

The spell engulfed Hermione in a blue light which buzzed loudly. Voldemort cackled as she tried to move out of the light and as Harry was burned when he tried to pull her from it.

Hermione's image flickered and vanished, as though she were a hologram in a muggle sci-fi film.

Harry stared at the space where she had once been, his brain not managing to get around the concept of her being there, and then not. The image of her frightened face was fixed in his mind, the solitary tear of desperation trailing down her cheek as she tried desperately to escape her fate.

He looked at Ginny, whose expression mirrored his own feelings.

All that was left on the ground before them were a few bitten down fingernails and a large clump of singed, bushy brown hair.

There was a bang as the chandelier flew to pieces. Riddle's wand soared back into his hand and before any of them could work out what had happened, Voldemort was on the floor, bleeding profusely, barely alive. Riddle walked over and said something quietly to him, his eyes dark and swirling with anger.

There was a flash of green light and Lord Voldemort was dead.

Tom Riddle ran from the Great Hall and was not seen again.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Oh look! An update! How novel! Thanks for your reviews of the first chapter guys, I'm glad you're all intrigued by it. I'm not entirely sure how this fic is going to work so updates won't be massively quick, though I'm hoping to pick up the pace over Christmas. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think.

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**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

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When Hermione awoke, she didn't have any clue how much later it was – an hour, a day, a week, a month, or maybe even a year. All she knew was that she was in the Hospital Wing and the sheets covering her were itchier than she remembered.

"Oh, you're awake," a male voice said in mild surprise. Hermione looked over and saw a tall dark haired boy walking towards Madame Pomfrey's office.

"Madame Rotherby!" he called through the wooden door after knocking politely. "The young lady's awake."

The door opened and a rosy cheeked woman bustled out. "Go and fetch Professor Dippet will you, Tom, and you'd better get Professor Dumbledore too, he seems to know more about what's happened to her than the Headmaster does. There's a good lad."

"What's happened to me?" Hermione asked, her head fuzzy, the conversation not making sense. Who was this Madame Rotherby and where was Madame Pomfrey? Had she been injured in the battle? Was she dead? Hermione swallowed hard at this thought and tried to sit up.

"You just stay there my love," Madam Rotherby said kindly as the boy, Tom, left the Hospital Wing. "Professor Dumbledore will explain everything to you. Lie still, I've just got to check you over."

Hermione did as she was told and felt the warm tingling of diagnostic charms spreading through her body. When she was finished, Madam Rotherby headed back into her office, reappearing almost instantly with a vial of purple potion.

"Here you are love, drink this. I'm afraid it's no Butterbeer but it'll make you feel ten times better."

Hermione did as she was told. "Where's Harry?" she asked, having swallowed the potion, tears burning in her eyes as it seared down her throat. She didn't feel ten times better at all, but decided to give the potion more than two seconds to kick in. "And Ron?"

Madame Rotherby frowned slightly. "Professor Dumbledore will explain," she said again. "Now what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Hermione," she told her, "Hermione Granger."

"Hermione," Madame Rotherby repeated with a smile, "that's a pretty name, we've never had a Hermione here before."

Hermione didn't respond and ran a slightly shaky hand through her hair, straight and tangle free. Frowning, she pulled a strand round so she could see it. It was several shades darker than it ought to be, and rather longer. Then she noticed her nails – usually bitten down past her fingertips due to stress and anxiety, they were now rounded, neat and in a state that her mother would definitely approve of.

"The spell that was cast on you did you some damage I'm afraid," Madame Rotherby informed her, watching her movements. "Your hair and nails didn't survive it – according to Professor Dumbledore it was poorly cast. Essentially you were splinched, so you arrived without hair and without nails. I didn't have any clue what your hair's normally like so I just did my best, we can change it though, don't worry, it's just I thought you'd prefer to wake up with different hair rather than none at all."

Hermione nodded. Madame Rotherby was right, different hair was much less shocking than no hair at all.

"I can fix it now if you'd like? If it'd make you feel a little better?"

Hermione nodded, and told Madame Rotherby what her hair usually looked like. In no time at all it was back to normal, bushy, brown and troublesome. She wouldn't have it any other way. "Will it grow like normal hair?" Hermione asked worriedly. George's ear hadn't been able to grow back after Snape had cursed it off, would her hair gradually thin until she was bald for good?

"Yes dear, but it'll just take a while to get going, once you're back on track it'll be fine."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She was not a vain person by any means, but losing her hair was something she wasn't too excited about. The door to the hospital wing opened and Hermione looked up, no longer concerned about he hair.

"Ah, good to see you awake, Miss..."

"Granger," Madame Rotherby supplied helpfully, "Hermione Granger."

Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Albus Dumbledore, auburn beard reaching midway down his chest, half moon spectacles resting on a nose which was just as crooked as it had been last time she had seen it, and very, very, much alive.

She had not quite taken it in when Madame Rotherby had asked Tom to go and get Professor Dumbledore – after all, she associated her time at Hogwarts (and her time in the Hospital Wing) with Dumbledore being alive, though not quite as young and agile as he appeared to be here, now.

He walked over with a tiny, wispy haired old man and both of them took a seat by her bed.

"Tom, would you mind giving us a little bit of privacy? Delicate matters, very delicate, you see," the little wizard said in a wheezy voice, glancing back towards the tall, dark haired boy that had been asked to fetch the two Professors.

"Of course, Headmaster," Tom said politely, nodding his head and stepping out of the Hospital Wing, closing the door behind him.

Madam Rotherby smiled warmly at Hermione. "I'll just be in my office if you need anything, all right love?"

Hermione nodded, still in shock, but manage to choke out a 'thank you'.

Dumbledore waved his wand and a blanket of hush fell upon them.

"No need for that, Albus," the little man said. "Quite unnecessary..."

"As you said, Headmaster, we are about to discuss a delicate matter," Dumbledore said calmly, "it is only fair that Miss Granger's privacy be respected."

"Very well, very well. I don't know why you don't _trust_ the boy..."

"Another time, perhaps, Armando?" Dumbledore said pointedly, taking a seat next to Hermione's bedside.

"Yes, yes, more important matters at hand."

"Professor, where are Harry, and Ron?" Hermione knew that asking would most likely turn up no answers – had she died? If she was talking to a younger Dumbledore, along with Armando Dippet, who'd already been dead a good forty five years, then perhaps...

"The spell that was cast upon you is known as the_ Tempora Abducto_ curse," Dumbledore began. "It has only been used twice in recorded history, and is, understandably, very illegal. The caster will be sentenced to life in Azkaban, though usually they are never caught. I expect you've had no experience with time travel, Miss Granger, so -"

"Time travel? Oh no, no don't tell me -"

"I'm afraid you _have_ travelled in time, my dear," Professor Dippet said in his nasally voice. "It's all very tricky business, very tricky -"

"Can I use a time turner to get back?" Hermione interrupted, assuming that there _were _still time turners available in this time – the stock at the Ministry were yet to be smashed to smithereens by her and her friends. "I used a time turner in my third year to attend my classes, surely I could -"

"Miss Granger, you know as well as I do that time turners can only be used to turn _back_ the clock, not skip it forward," Dumbledore said, a sympathetic expression resting on his younger face. "But," he continued, "if you have used a time turner before then you know the laws, of course? You know what you must and must not do? You know the importance?"

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said, sitting up straighter against her pillows. "My Head of House made me read the laws through fifteen times before she even let me see it, I know them like the back of my hand."

Professor Dumbledore smiled.

Hermione asked the question that had been burning inside her since the words 'time travel' had been mentioned. The feeling of dread in her stomach accompanied her intuition that she would not like the answer. "So if I can't use a time turner, how _do_ I get back? Can this _Tempora Abducto_ spell send me back? I've never even heard of it, actually."

Dumbledore's smile disappeared and Dippet twirled his thumbs rapidly, his attention focused on his fidgeting hands.

"I'm afraid _Tempora Abducto_ can only send people _backwards_, like a time turner, that's why it's always so difficult to catch the perpetrator – the victim has usually passed away long before the spell itself is actually cast."

"You mean I'm going to -?" Hermione began, panicking before Dumbledore cut her off.

"Oh no, dear girl, no no, I apologise if I frightened you. I merely meant that the two times _Tempora Abducto_ has been used before this, the victims were sent back a good few hundred years. Thus their lives came to an end by natural causes before they grew old enough to see their present as it would have been."

"So that's it? I'm just supposed to...give up?"

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. "Greater wizards than myself and Professor Dippet have spent their lives trying to find a way forward in time, and all of them have been unsuccessful. I daresay by the time either of us would get anywhere near, you'd already have lived through the years until your present anyway."

"And what am I supposed to do? I haven't got any family, any friends, any _identity_, I don't exist in this time, I'm just here, and I'm not supposed to be!"

"Oh you're supposed to be," Dippet wheezed, "the time you know is not how time would have been had you not been sent back here. It might just be a small change, perhaps the colour of a room, the name of a child, but you have been here, you have always been here, and thus time as you know it is time adjusted to your presence in _this_ time."

Hermione felt her lip wobble ever so slightly but managed to keep her tears at bay. She was not usually one for crying, though she thought the circumstances did rather call for some desperation, perhaps even a pinch of hysterics too. However, she would not cry in front of two former (or current and future) Headmasters of the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. She was tougher than that.

"Madame Rotherby will most likely keep you in for a few more days," Dumbledore told her. "Have you completed your education or are you still a student?"

"I haven't taken my seventh year," Hermione said quietly, still trying to get her head around the situation she was stuck in, seemingly forever.

"Well that won't be a problem," Dippet said, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose loudly. "You can enrol here, term starts in two weeks, we'll sort you into a house and you'll be able to complete your education. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to send an owl to the Department of Mysteries, they've been asking about you."

Hermione's eyebrows raised.

"Nothing to worry about," Dippet said as he got to his feet, "just general filing, they'll add you into wizarding records, you'll have your own history and no one will be any the wiser. I'm sure Tom will keep you company until the start of term, nice boy, _Head_ Boy actually, he'll be in the same year as you, possibly in a few of your classes. Until next time, Miss Granger," he waved cheerily and hurried out of the hospital wing, giving off the impression that he had much more important things to be doing other than dealing with rogue time travellers.

"Is this the bit where you tell me there's a way to get back?" Hermione asked in a shaky voice as she turned to Dumbledore, ninety nine per cent certain that he would not unveil some grand master plan. That one per cent was still there, though, and just as valid as every one per cent that made up the ninety nine going against her.

Dumbledore raised a small, grim smile. "I'm afraid not, Miss Granger, there is no plan, no alternative, and no solution. Some things just can't be fixed, and inconveniently it's the things that need fixing the most which are often irreparable."

Hermione's shoulders slumped slightly and she swallowed a lump in her throat. "So this is it?"

"This is it. I'll let you get some rest now."

Hermione nodded, and couldn't stop the first hot tear of hopelessness from spilling down her cheek. Once he had closed the door, she sobbed into her pillow, and barely noticed when Madame Rotherby returned from her office and put her arms around in her in an attempt at comfort. No amount of hugging would have helped, and Hermione continued to cry until she exhausted herself and fell asleep in the arms of Madame Rotherby.

* * *

"Good morning."

Hermione looked up and saw the tall, dark haired boy who had gone to fetch Dumbledore and Dippet the previous day. She frowned slightly, wondering exactly why this boy seemed to have so much interest in her. "Hello," she replied politely.

"Tom," he said, holding out his hand, "Tom Riddle."

Overcoming her shock in an admirably short space of time, Hermione managed a polite smile and shook his hand. As she looked into his grey eyes, a memory stirred in her mind. One of the last things she remembered happening when she was in her own time.

_The pain was still incomparable to anything she'd ever felt before in her life. The curse had been lifted, but she could barely tell. She had stopped screaming, certainly, but she was shaking violently in Ron's arms and every cell in her body felt like it was on the brink of exploding. _

_She felt Ron move backwards sharply, and opening her eyes, she saw a figure wearing dark trousers and a dark blue shirt approaching. He had grey eyes, and she flinched (though amongst the shaking, no one would have noticed) when she saw the fury in them. He raised his wand, and before Hermione could do anything to protect herself, she was hit by a spell._

_It felt like she was drowning in goodness; liquid gold, something decadent like that, liquid gold that was warm and comforting. Her nerves finally settled and the man leaned down to whisper in her ear. _

"_Patience and trust, Hermione, patience and trust."_

_And then Tom Riddle had fought Lord Voldemort – though she hadn't stuck around long enough to see the outcome of _that_ particular battle._

"So when are you from?" Tom asked, interrupting her memories.

"London," Hermione replied absently.

"_When_, not where," Tom repeated, a little arrogantly.

"What do you mean _when?_" Hermione said with a frown. "Here, now. Why, when are _you_ from?"

"_I_ am from here, and now, but you are not," he leaned forward, placing a hand on the side of her rather uncomfortable bed. "You can trust me, you know, Hermione."

Hermione looked away from him, unnerved by his very mechanical movements, all thought out previously to lull her into a false sense of security. Did he sit in his dormitory reading books about mannerisms and gestures that made people seem trustworthy? It was the very still, very confident look in his eyes that gave him away. He was sure he was going to get information, that she was a stupid girl who didn't have a chance against him. Oh how _very_ wrong he was.

"_Patience and trust, Hermione, patience and trust."_

She shook her head to try and rid herself of that particular memory. The man in the future could _not_ have been Tom Riddle. For a start, Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort, and though he could divide his soul, Hermione doubted very much that he could be two separate people. Secondly, the man who had cast that wonderful healing spell on her was far too young to have been alive in 1944. Thus, the teenage boy sitting next to her and the young man in the Great Hall were two very separate people. She would _not_ trust Tom Riddle and she _certainly_ wouldn't be breaking the laws of time travel to satiate his curiosity.

"Tell me," Tom said, sitting back in his chair, "what is the last newspaper headline you remember?"

Hermione frowned. "What are you expecting? _Self-spelling wands sell out at Ollivanders_? _Minister for Magic caught telling the truth_?"

"Humour me," Tom replied, smirking slightly. "Last headline you remember."

Hermione's brain whirred as she ran through every History of Magic lesson they had had regarding this particular era. Grindelward was the obvious one, but he wasn't defeated until sometime next year...but as Rita Skeeter had said in that dreadful book of hers, the pressure had been mounting on Dumbledore for some time before he actually _did_ go and duel Grindelward...

"I think it was saying how Dumbledore should go and do something about Grindelward, step up and actually take a stand, you know," she tried to sound a little uncertain, as though it were a memory, rather than uncertain because it was a very blind stab in the dark.

Tom smirked. "Very well, I'll leave you to get some rest."

This left Hermione feeling quite perplexed. Had she picked an appropriate headline? Even if it was a couple of months late, it'd still be believable...ish. She'd just come across as some brain dead dolt who never looked at the papers and had no grasp on current affairs whatsoever.

As she settled herself back into her pillows she had one question:

What in the name of Merlin had Voldemort been playing at when he sent her back to his own time?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** It's been a while, for which I apologise. I had a bit of a block with this one, though hopefully I'll be able to get back on track. I also posted a one-shot this morning, which is Tom/Hermione, you might like to check that out. Look out for a Dramione very shortly. I may post the first chapter in the next few days, we'll have to see how it goes. Anyway, after all that shameless plugging, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for all your reviews so far, they really do help to motivate me. Let me know what you think. =]

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**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

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"Toast?" Tom slid the toast rack across the table to her and Hermione paused before taking two slices. Before she could even reach out for the butter, it had zoomed towards her, knife hovering in mid air, waiting for her to take control of it. Tom smirked.

"Thank you," Hermione said stiffly, taking the knife and buttering her toast, avoiding his ever watchful eye.

There was a screech as a solitary owl soared into the Great Hall and dropped a newspaper onto the table. It landed mere centimetres away from Tom's hand, and he picked it up, shook it out to straighten it before he smirked again, setting the newspaper down in front of Hermione so she could read the headline on the front page.

_PUBLIC URGE DUMBLEDORE TO TAKE ACTION_

Hermione pursed her lips slightly and scanned the article.

"Interesting little premonition you had there, don't you think?" Tom pulled the paper back to his side of the table and opened it to page four, so he could continue reading the story.

"Premonition? They've been talking about that for ages," Hermione replied, trying to keep her voice sounding as casual as possible as she bit into her toast, chewing thoroughly and then swallowing.

"Oh really? _'_"_We've all been thinking it, but nobody's said it. I'm glad the Prophet's finally stepped up to say what needs saying," says Eva Crockford, Salisbury.'_ Really sounds like this is an ongoing thing doesn't it? Not breaking news at all..."

"Well maybe some of us stay more up to date than others," Hermione said haughtily, taking one last bite of her toast and getting up from the table.

"Eager to get away, aren't you?" Tom commented, his eyes now focused on a story about a town in Austria which had been decimated by Grindelward and his followers.

"You'd prefer it if I hung around you all day like a lost puppy?" Hermione asked.

Tom said nothing and Hermione left.

* * *

Hermione had been out of the hospital wing for two days, and had done well so far at avoiding Tom and his questions. The Room of Requirement had certainly come in handy – he had no idea it existed, and seeing as he had completely taken over her usual sanctuary (the library) she was incredibly grateful for its existence.

She had been unable to sit in the Gryffindor common room. It was empty, devoid of life and it was _wrong_. There was no Ron, frowning over a chess board, no Lavender or Parvati, giggling over whichever boy was flavour of the week, no Neville, running a frustrated hand through his hair as he tried to get his head around his homework, and no Harry, planning some sort of life threatening escapade while she, Hermione, tutted at noisy first years who were interrupting her exam revision.

She had no choice other than to sit with him at meal times, however. She _could_ have eaten in the kitchens, but then that would have gone too far, he would have known she was doing everything she could to avoid him, and he would know she was scared. On top of that, the teachers would think it very odd that two seventh years, the only students present in the school before the start of term, would not even speak to each other.

As nervous as she was, she couldn't wait for the other students to arrive, to find other people to talk to, to have classes, homework, and exams to concentrate on. Hopefully, once they did, she would be able to pretend Tom didn't even exist, and he would become completely uninterested in her, once his Slytherin friends were back by his side. Unfortunately she still had over a week to get through before the first day of term.

She was about to climb the stairs, heading for the seventh floor when she caught sight of something sparkling through the window. The sun was reflecting off of the lake, which rippled slightly in the gentle breeze, no sign of the giant squid. Perhaps he wasn't as giant in this time, perhaps he wasn't even born. She glanced to the spot where the Whomping Willow would be planted in another thirty years and tried not to think of Lupin.

Deciding she'd better make the most of the last few days of sunshine, she headed out to the lake, sitting down at the edge of it, her mind wandering, as it so often had sine she'd got here, to everything that had been left behind.

Being here wasn't just like being back in time, it was like being in another _world_. Nobody had even heard of Lord Voldemort, none of her friends, or their parents had been born, Dumbledore was alive, the castle stood tall, proud, and undamaged, and the library was a lot less full than she was used to.

"Sickle for your thoughts?"

Hermione looked up and squinted, the sun blinding her temporarily. Tom sat down next to her, a thick, leather bound book in his hands.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Oh, I'm not really thinking about much."

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"If you must know I was thinking about hair potions," Hermione lied, trying to sound impatient. With any luck, if he thought she was shallow enough, he would deem her unworthy of his time, no matter how mysterious her arrival at the school may have been.

"Of course you were," Tom replied, glancing towards her hair. She could tell he was humouring her. "What does your father do?"

"My father isn't alive," Hermione told him. It wasn't a lie, after all. He could interpret it as he wished, and if he interpreted it wrongly, that was hardly Hermione's fault.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess we're in the same boat. Is your mother -?"

"No," Hermione said quickly.

"Do you live in an orphanage as well, then?"

"No, do you?" she tried to sound interested and sympathetic but she could tell it wasn't washing with him. Of course the 'my parents are dead, feel sorry for me' trick wasn't going to wash with _her,_ not when he had killed his own father. He'd brought that one on himself.

"I did, but this summer Professor Dippet let me stay in the castle, I'm of age, so it wasn't really a problem. I stay out of the way mostly, work in the library, draw up prefect schedules for next year. It's quite dull really. I thought, with your arrival things would be a little more interesting but you don't seem to like me much."

Hermione's eyebrows drew momentarily together. Did he really expect her to swallow this?

"It's not that I don't like you," Hermione replied carefully. "You just keep asking me weird questions and it makes me uncomfortable. Like you're constantly interrogating me or something. I don't know about you but I don't really class that as enjoyable."

"I apologise if it came across that way," Tom said, "I'm just curious. You arrived with a bit of a bang, that's all."

Hermione's stomach tied itself into a knot. "You were there?"

"Yes, I was eating dinner, and there was a loud bang, and there you were on the floor. All battered and broken and...bald," his lips pressed together after the last word and he cleared his throat, looking out across the lake.

"Ah," Hermione said. There wasn't anything else _to_ say.

"You can't apparate in Hogwarts grounds, you can't enter by stealth at all and nobody had ever seen you before. _That's_ why I'm curious. So where did you come from?"

There was no getting around the fact that her arrival had been out of the ordinary. She figured it would be best to satisfy his curiosity, just a little. And to play dumb.

"I was cursed," she told him. "But I don't remember who by, or with what kind of spell. I just woke up in the Hospital Wing."

"Does the Headmaster know what -?"

"Don't you think he would have told me if he did?"

Tom frowned, and pulled some parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink out of his pocket. "So the side effects were amnesia, hair loss, what else? Is anything different?" he looked up from the parchment, where he was scribbling notes, as though he were a doctor of some sort, taking down a list of symptoms from a patient.

"I don't know - I don't remember what it was like before."

Tom's frown deepened. "I'm going to the library, I'll see you at dinner."

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Trying to find out what you've been cursed with. There might be other side effects that haven't presented themselves yet – nastier ones."

"So?"

"Do you really have so little regard for your own well being?"

"No, but I didn't realise you had so _much _regard for it."

"Well it would put a dampener on the start of term if you dropped dead in the middle of the feast. Besides, I love a good project."

He got up and shoved his quill and ink back into his pocket, holding the parchment tightly in his hand. He hadn't even taken ten steps before Hermione scrambled to her feet and chased after him. He merely smirked when she caught up with him.

"You weren't thinking about hair potions at all, were you?"

* * *

It was hard work, trying to stay one step ahead of him. Hermione had no idea if there were any books in the library about the Tempora Abducto curse, but she was doing all in her power to make sure that Tom didn't even catch sight of the words, let alone read up on all the details of the curse. His questions would increase tenfold if he knew where she was from, and he might resort to more desperate measures if she refused to answer him. A large lump grew in her throat at this thought, impossible to swallow down.

It was just her luck, surviving to the end of one war (she had decided that Voldemort in her time had been killed – whether it was true or not, she didn't care. She couldn't bear to spend the next fifty years worrying about it,) then being sent back in time to live not only through Grindelward's reign of terror, but through the first war as well. Then, providing she lived long enough, she'd have to go through the second one all over again, without being seen or heard by anybody who might know of Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best friend, and make the connection between the two of them. It was all far too complex and she wondered what she could have possibly done wrong in her previous life to deserve this.

"Oh look at this."

The fist around Hermione's heart squeezed tightly as Tom approached, an open book in his arms.

"Do you keep getting headaches?"

"No," Hermione replied, and the fist loosened, just a little.

"And you haven't had a sudden outbreak of pustules on the small of your back?"

"_No_," Hermione answered, unable to keep the disgust and indignation from her voice.

Tom looked up from the book. "I won't think any less of you if you _have_," he told her, "you've been cursed, and curses aren't supposed to be pleasant."

"Well I don't think it's really affecting me now," Hermione reasoned. "I'm fine."

"You've lost your memory, it's hardly _fine." _Tom disappeared into the bookshelves once more and Hermione sighed.

* * *

"Okay, new approach."

"Which is?"

"We find out who your family are, what did you say your surname was again?"

"I didn't."

"Are you always this difficult?" Tom demanded. "I've spent the last week trying to help you and -"

"No, you're trying to satisfy your own curiosity," Hermione huffed. "As much as I adore being your little project, I'm getting quite tired of it all."

"Well go elsewhere and think about hair potions then," he said impatiently, and took a step towards her. Hermione immediately took a step backwards, knocking into one of the shelves. He took another step, and was inches away from her. "Or, alternatively, you can save us all a lot of time and tell me the truth, Miss..."

"Mercer," Hermione replied, with only a second's hesitation. Her documents had come through from the Department of Mysteries a few days ago, and she would now go by the name of Hermione Mercer.

"Hermione Mercer..."

"If you have a problem with my name, you'd best take it up with my parents. They were the ones who chose it, after all," she turned to walk away, to leave the library and not come back. At least, not while he was in there. He put an arm up to block her.

"Who's Harry?"

The change of subject and mention of her best friend took Hermione by surprise. She opened and closed her mouth several times, and Tom smirked, inching closer, his grey eyes boring into her own, his hands resting on the shelf either side of her. She wasn't going to be able to get out of this one too cleanly. At least, not without telling him _something_.

"He's my cat, why, where did you hear me -?"

"_Rubbish_," Tom spat.

"You don't like cats?" Hermione asked, her voice having jumped up a few notes without her consent. She glanced down at his arms either side of her, momentarily back to his eyes and then decided to look over his shoulder instead.

He raised his right hand and pulled a book from the shelf, just above her head. he thrust it at her and she took it.

"Page four hundred and sixty three. I'll be expecting you at dinner."

He left, slamming the door of the library behind him, the windows rattling in their frames. If Madam Pince had been there, she'd have murdered him.

Hermione sat down in the nearest chair and opened the book, flicking to the page he had mentioned.

The fist held her heart in a vice like grip when she saw the title at the top of the page, and Hermione could barely breathe. All feeling had left her body and her brain seemed to go numb in panic. Eventually, she was able to read.

_Tempora Abducto._

_A curse so intricate and delicate that it has only been cast twice in recorded history. Few wizards have the immense power needed to cast it correctly, and even fewer become so involved with the dark arts that they have tried. _

_Unsuccessful castings have often resulted in death, though one victim (Laurence Jacobs, 1742-1503) arrived in the fifteenth century missing a foot, essentially being splinched through time. _

_There is no reverse for this curse, though if caught, the caster will be sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. Casting such a spell is considered even more destructive than casting the Unforgivable Curses, as wizarding history has the potential to be changed with one wrong word. _

There was a diagram underneath of a man with a missing foot; presumably this was Laurence Jacobs. Hermione turned the page, expecting to read more, but it was the start of a new chapter concerning the Unforgivables. She'd already learned enough about those in her fourth year, and had had far too much contact with them in the years that had followed. She didn't need to read up on those.

She got up and slotted the book back into place on the shelf, her hands trembling.

He'd known. From that very first day, he'd known.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** A little later than promised unfortunately. I think I've kind of slipped into a routine of posting once every two weeks, and hopefully I'll be able to see that through right to the end of the story. Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far, you're absolute angels. Just a little bit of shameless plugging: I posted a George/Hermione one-shot on Saturday called Sit With You. Some of you may enjoy it, I know some of you have already read and reviewed, for which I am incredibly grateful. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, I seem to get terrible writer's block with this story and I think my writing might suffer. Whatever. Let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

She sat down opposite him, keeping her trembling hands under the table. He looked up at her, then returned his attention to his book. After a minute or so, he spoke.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Hermione demanded, fear dissipating as her temper began to bubble at being treated like a badly behaved schoolgirl. It was all his fault that she was here anyway. _Not_ that he knew that, and he wouldn't find out for a good fifty years or so.

"You don't have to worry," he told her, his lips curving into a thin smile. "I'm not going to tell anybody."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Of course not," Tom said, taking a sip from his pumpkin juice, his eyes dropping back down to his book. He flicked the page, and Hermione caught a glimpse of gruesome diagrams and runic symbols that she didn't even remotely recognise.

"What are you reading?"

Tom looked up from the book. "Nothing."

"Don't you think that's a little childish?" Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't you think you're being a little nosy?" he shut the book and stood up. "Enjoy your dinner. The other students will be arriving tomorrow so I'd make the most of the peace and quiet if I were you."

"Right," Hermione said, not meeting his eye.

"We _can_ be friends Hermione," Tom said. "You just have to let us."

Hermione looked up, a flash of gold catching her eye. It was the ring. He was wearing a section of his soul on his little finger, and his father and grandparents were already dead. She tore her eyes away from it and forced her mouth to make words. "It's difficult to be friends when you keep thrusting ridiculous theories at me."

Tom smiled briefly, turned, and left.

Her shoulders sagged as she let out a breath. She had a feeling that he was going to use that little bit of assumed knowledge to his advantage, and she didn't like that idea one bit. Harry had told her how manipulative and controlling he had been, even as a teenager. One only had to look at what had happened with Ginny and the diary to work that one out.

With that thought, an idea hit her. An idea that would see her through the school year relatively safely, and then afterwards she could move to some country far away from Lord Voldemort, far away from the people who would come to know her in her own time in years to come, and far away from anything that reminded of how very much alone she was in all of this.

Two could play at the blackmail game, and the brilliant thing was, the Ministry knew she had travelled back in time, as did Dumbledore and Dippet, what they did _not_ know, however, were the finer details of what Tom Marvolo Riddle had gotten up to in his time at Hogwarts thus far.

A confident smile formed on her lips as she heaped a spoonful of mashed potato onto her plate. Tom Riddle thought he had the upper hand, but he would soon realise that he most definitely did not.

* * *

"I'm Lucy, this is Joanne, and that's Ava."

Hermione tried to commit these details to memory. "I'll probably forget that all in the next five minutes," she said apologetically, "I'm terrible with names."

"That's all right," said Joanne, "when we first started, I spent an entire term calling Ava 'Eva'."

"Yeah, and Professor Binns _still_ calls me 'Miss Meyer'. I have no _idea_ who 'Miss Meyer' is, there aren't any Meyers in the entire school," Ava said with a scowl.

"Apart from you," Joanne joked.

Ava rolled her eyes.

Hermione sat and listened while Lucy, who was apparently the leader of the group, told her all about Hogwarts, what the teachers were like, where her classes were, how cold it got in the winter, but it was all right because it usually meant they ended up with a white Christmas and it got pretty sunny towards the end of the school year anyway, so it kind of balanced out. Hermione would ask questions occasionally, most of which she already knew the answers to, but felt it would look odd if she appeared completely disinterested.

"We'll get people to show you to your classes. All three of us are in Charms and Transfiguration with you, and I _think_ Richard, that boy over there with the curly hair? I think he's in your Potions class, so he can show you to that one...Jo, who's doing Defence Against the Dark Arts this year?"

Joanne shrugged. "Patrick? I dunno really."

"I think I'll be all right actually," Hermione said, dreading the idea of being chaperoned to each of her classes. It was a kind offer, there was no doubt about it, but she couldn't stand being told things that she already knew. Being shown the way around Hogwarts when she had already lived there for six years and probably knew more secret passages than everyone put together (courtesy of the Marauders, of course) was certainly not her idea of fun.

"It's a big place," Lucy said, skewing her lips. "Best to be on the safe side."

"Well to be honest, there wasn't much to do in the last two weeks except look around, so I think I've got a pretty good idea of the place. And I don't want to be a nuisance to anybody."

"Nonsense!" Lucy said with a wide smile. "You're a Gryffindor! We look after our own and we're happy to do it. It's a good job you weren't sorted into Slytherin, they'd probably let you rot."

"They can't all be that bad, can they?" Hermione knew with absolute certainty that they were.

"It's best to just steer clear of them. Especially Tom. Don't get on his bad side. He practically controls the entire school. He's got Dippet wrapped around his little finger."

"Really?" Hermione asked, mildly surprised that Lucy hadn't been taken in by Tom's charming façade and handsome features.

"Yeah," Lucy replied. "He's the cleverest boy in the school, always in the library, and by all accounts, he should be loathed. He's a total swot. _Not_ that that's a bad thing, it's just generally accepted that smart isn't cool, but he's like their _king_ or something."

Hermione looked over, and saw a rather greasy looking boy vying for Tom's attention. When Tom granted him a sentence or two, he looked towards the other boys around them, his face oozing smugness. There was another boy, sitting slightly further down the table, looking quite detached from the group. He took no trouble to hide the venomous look etched across his features, his top lip curled and his brow creased in disapproval. Tom didn't seem to care, and none of the other boys paid much attention to him either.

"Who's that?" Hermione asked, nodding towards him.

Lucy frowned while she tried to work out who Hermione was looking at. "Oh, Arcturus? The on the end?"

Hermione nodded.

"Arcturus Black. He's not really on friendly terms with Tom. Mostly because he's a Black, so he thinks he should be ruling the Slytherin roost. He keeps putting it about that Tom's muggleborn, but nobody believes him. Or at least, when it comes to Tom, nobody cares."

Hermione's lips twisted as she tried to remember the family tree at Grimmauld Place. Where did Arcturus come into it? Was she looking at Sirius' father? Bellatrix's father?

"All a bit pathetic really, isn't it?" Lucy said with a roll of her eyes.

"I think it's good that they're looking up to Tom," Ava interrupted, glancing over to the Slytherin table. "He's a good influence on them. He's _Head Boy_, Lucy."

Lucy pursed her lips, tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and said nothing more.

* * *

When she had first arrived, the silence in the dormitory had been odd – she was used to sharing with Parvati and Lavender – but after the first few nights she'd become accustomed to it. Now, however, it was a slightly different story. She was sharing with Lucy, Ava and Joanne, and though they weren't particularly loud, there was so much noise coming from each of them that Hermione didn't manage to get to sleep until long after midnight.

She yawned widely at breakfast the following morning. Professor Dumbledore was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out timetables and welcoming first years with a warm smile and words of comfort.

"I trust you're getting on well enough, Miss Mercer?" he said when he reached Hermione.

"Yes, thank you Professor," she replied, twisting round on the bench so she could see him.

"Very good, here's your time table," he handed over a sheet of parchment, "and I'm sure one of your fellow Gryffindors will aid you in reaching the dungeons for your potions class this morning." He looked pointedly towards the curly haired boy that Lucy had pointed out the previous evening, who nodded, then smiled at Hermione.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "Well, I trust you'll have an enjoyable first day. Any problems, my office is on the third floor, Ava will be able to show you."

Ava looked down at her plate, her cheeks tinged pink and didn't look up again until she was sure Dumbledore had moved on.

Hermione frowned and looked at Lucy.

"We'll tell you later," Joanne said with a grin. "Delicate matter, isn't it?" she looked towards Ava who scowled.

* * *

"Miss Mercer, am I right?"

"Yes Professor," Hermione said as she took a seat at an empty table.

"Very good, very good. Tom! Why don't you sit next to her, make sure she finds everything she needs this lesson, give her a hand if she needs it, there's a good lad."

Hermione's stomach sank and she felt the muscles in her forearms tense up. Her feeling of dread, however, didn't stop her from feeling a little offended. What did Slughorn mean, 'give her a hand?'. Was he so sure that she was a disastrous potion maker already? She pushed the thought from her mind, replacing it with determination to prove her intelligence.

"Of course, Professor. It would be my pleasure."

Hermione kept her eyes focused on the blackboard as Tom sat down, and thankfully Slughorn didn't waste any time in getting started.

"Now ladies, gentlemen, I trust you all had an enjoyable summer break and I hope that everything you learnt last year hasn't whizzed out of your heads. Now, this year will be a tough one, though I'm sure most of you will manage to leave the school with a decent set of grades. I've brewed a selection of poisons, one for each of you. Your job is to find out what it is and brew a suitable antidote, are we clear?"

There was a murmur of agreement and Slughorn began handing out vials of poison, some of them clear, some of them brightly coloured and one, which he gave to Tom, jet black. Hermione took her vial and immediately got to work, hoping that her need to concentrate would block Tom from her mind.

After half an hour of carefully adding indicator potions, analysing smoke patterns and cross referencing them with her battered copy of _Advanced Potion Making_, she was quite sure she had the answer, and she was also quite sure she was going to make an impact with her antidote. Whether she had Harry to thank for the idea, or whether it should have been Professor Snape, in their first ever lesson, or that wretched annotated text book of his, she had no idea. As it was, however, she was going to pull this trick before any of them.

She brewed the antidote regardless, to pass the time and to cover herself when Slughorn told her that her other option was not always available. Finishing ten minutes before the end of the lesson, she emptied a small amount of antidote into an empty vial, vanished her cauldron and the rest of the potion and patiently, waiting for the others to finish.

"Right! Who's got an antidote?" Slughorn said, clapping his hands together. He pressed his lips together as he looked around the room and vanished a few cauldrons which seemed to contain something much more detrimental to the health than the poisons they were supposed to be fighting.

"Tom, what have you got?" Slughorn's round face looked hopeful as Tom held up his poison.

"This is Asinter. It's a paralytic potion and shuts down all of the major organs in less than an hour. This," he held up a vial of purple liquid, "is the antidote. It can also be used to combat several other poisons."

"Very good, very good," Slughorn said as he held the antidote up to the light, turning it around in his fingers. He set it back down on the table and looked towards Hermione. "And Miss Mercer?"

"I had the Deletritis Potion."

Slughorn nodded, looking pleased. "And your antidote?"

Hermione reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a small round stone. She placed it on the table.

"Oho," Slughorn said, his smile growing wider. "Oho..."

"Did you have some trouble with your antidote, Hermione?" Tom asked, smiling ever so slightly.

"No, but if something's going to kill me in twenty minutes, I'd rather get it sorted straight away with a Bezoar as opposed to waiting for some of this," she pulled her vial of antidote out of her pocket and placed it on the table next to the Bezoar.

Tom's smile disappeared as Slughorn's grew impossibly wider. He chuckled loudly.

"Well Miss Mercer, I think the only thing that remains is for me to give twenty points to Gryffindor. I don't know who taught you at your last school, but should you see them again, make sure you give them my regards."

Hermione smiled and wondered how he would deal with it when she walked into this classroom in fifty years time, and whether Dumbledore would tell him about the curse. Had he already known in sixth year what had happened to her? She frowned as she left the classroom, trying to work through everything inside her head.

"That was quite an amusing little stunt you pulled there."

She turned and saw that Tom was walking along side her, his large hands holding out a tatty book.

"Your potions book," he said. "You forgot it."

"Right," Hermione said, blinking a couple of times. "Thank you." She took the book and stopped in the corridor as she fiddled with the clasp on her bag, finally managing to deposit the book inside.

Tom waited patiently for her. "There's no reason we _can't_ be friends. I know your new Gryffindor buddies have probably told all sorts of tales on us Slytherins but-"

"Say for a second your theory was correct," Hermione interrupted. "Hypothetically."

Tom smirked. "Yes..."

"Well if it _was_ correct, then wouldn't you need to be a little more concerned than you seem to be at the moment at the things I might know?"

Tom's confident smile froze and slowly dropped. "What could you possibly know about me?"

"Secrets get uncovered over time, Tom. If you want to stay in this school, the only place that you could ever call home -"

Tom's face twitched.

"- then I suggest that you play by _my_ rules."

"So I'm right then?" he asked, quickly getting over his displeasure.

Hermione sighed. "You know you are."

Tom's smirk returned.

"I warn you though," Hermione continued, her voice hard, "do _not_ underestimate me. I know more about you than anybody in this entire school. I know about the orphanage you grew up in, I know what you did to your father and your grandparents, and I know exactly what you got up to in your fifth year."

Tom laughed and she could hear the nerves despite his forced display of confidence. "Nice try, Hermione, but you're not fooling me."

Hermione merely smiled. "My rules, Tom. My rules." She turned away from him and began walking down the corridor, careful not to move too quickly. She didn't want it to look like she was running away.

"What are your rules?" he called after her.

Hermione turned around, now walking backwards. "Stay away from me. That's all." She turned back again, and left Tom standing in the corridor, grey eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in a thin line of anger.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hi there! Last chapter I had a bit of a slip up - due to an extremely strong Confundus Charm, I wrote it so that Hermione was addressed as 'Granger' by people who should have been calling her 'Mercer'. Thanks to Anna on the Horizon, that's all sorted now, but I thought I'd mention it just in case any of you read it before I fixed it and got confused. Anyway, that business over and done with, I can now move onto shameless plugging. I wrote a sequel to Wait for the Song to Stop, it's called Promises, and you'll find it on my profile. They're both Tom/Hermione fics and they're a little bit silly and they involve Vol-au-vents and dancing. Make of that what you will. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far (including those other two fics) your messages do much to motivate me and I value every single one. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think! =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

Hermione found that she soon settled into her new routine, and her new friends provided a welcome distraction from her problems. She had forgotten, in her year on the run with Harry and Ron, just how much she loved being at Hogwarts, how much she enjoyed her lessons, and how much time she used to spend in the library.

Unfortunately the library had been slightly tainted by Tom's seemingly constant presence. As it was, the seventh years had mountains of homework to deal with, and so she could lose herself amongst the clusters of panicking students, hoping that Tom would not spot her.

It seemed, so far at least, that he had decided to play by her rules. He didn't speak to her in lessons, and the only time he acknowledged her existence was during a Transfiguration lesson; Hermione had contradicted one of his answers and had been correct. Though he had said nothing, she didn't fail to notice the disgruntled twitch which creased his nose for just a second before he became the picture of perfection once more.

"I take it you're not going to Hogsmeade either," he said, sitting down on the opposite side of the table that Hermione had taken over in the library.

Hermione looked up briefly, then looked back at her essay.

"Just making conversation..." he said quietly, opening his bag and taking out his books.

"There are _other_ tables," Hermione said pointedly, still focused on the piece of parchment in front of her, eyes flicking every so often to the worn, leather bound book that she was referencing.

"But none of them have such delightful company," Tom replied, his voice laced with false charm.

Hermione ignored him and continued to work in silence.

"I take it you'll be attending the feast tonight," Tom said after a short while, scanning the index of _Advanced Magical Theory, _his finger tapping twice on the topic he was searching for once he found it. He flicked through the book to find the appropriate page and then looked at Hermione again.

"Hermione?"

"What do you want?" she asked with a sigh, setting down her quill. She pressed her hands together, interlacing her fingers and rested her chin on them as she waited for his answer.

"I was merely enquiring as to whether you'd be attending the Halloween feast."

"You know I will," Hermione said impatiently. "Enough lies and tell me what you _actually_ want."

Tom smirked. "Oh stop beating about the bush and say what you_ really_ feel, Hermione," he waited, as though he expected her to laugh. When she didn't, he leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, looking around for any signs of eavesdroppers before he continued. "I want to know _how_ much you know. You don't have to tell me about the future -"

Hermione tutted and rolled her eyes.

"- as if you would," Tom added. "But I want to know what you know about me, right now."

Hermione sighed and decided to indulge him, just a little. Perhaps it would scare him away again, keep him on his toes. "I know that you can speak to snakes."

Tom smirked. "Well they do hold far more interesting conversations than all of the wretched students in this school put together. Anything else?"

"Plenty, but I have an essay to finish so if you don't mind..." She picked up her quill again, dipped it in her ink and continued from where she left off. She had to work hard to concentrate, and work even harder to fight the urge to look up and see his reaction.

Tom said nothing, however. There was a rustle of parchment and Hermione glanced up quickly to see him taking his essay out of his bag. She frowned and looked back at her own essay. She still had another twelve inches to write, and that would take her at least another hour.

She glanced up again. He was smiling pleasantly as he wrote, and appeared to be ignoring her. Hermione knew better. He was testing her, seeing how long she'd last until she snapped.

It was fairly easy, to block out the sounds of his quill scratching as he speedily wrote his essay in that small elegant script that Hermione was ever so slightly envious of. She wished that _she'd_ been taught to write like that at school, but things had changed by the time she'd gone to school as a child, and neat, artistic writing was not, unfortunately, on the curriculum.

The only thing that really got on Hermione's nerves, though she didn't dare show any sign that she'd even noticed, was the way that his books seemed to spread across the table, taking up more and more space by the minute. Every time he picked up a book, he'd put it down further away after he was done with it, until she was penned in by stacks upon stacks of books, some of which were not even relevant to the essay he was apparently concentrating on.

Eventually, after an hour and a quarter of fierce concentration and a seemingly endless store of patience, Hermione had proofread her essay, and was happy with the result. She tapped it with her wand and it rolled up into a scroll, before popping it into her bag along with her quill, ink and parchment.

"Finished already?"

Hermione said nothing as she got up and slung her bag over her shoulder.

"There's a wealth of information in this book," Tom pulled a book out of one of the teetering towers that covered the table, teeth clamped on his tongue in concentration, as though he was playing a literary version of Jenga. "You won't get an Outstanding without mentioning the information in here. They've got a whole chapter on -"

Hermione dumped her bag back on the table loudly, then flicked through the book to find the chapter he had told her about, and the 'wealth of information' it contained. This information was irritatingly absent from her essay, and so she pulled out her chair, sat down, and set about redrafting her essay.

"I believe the words you're looking for are 'thank you, Tom,'" he said, his lips pressed together in amusement.

His amusement evaporated when he was hit by a mountain of books. He huffed, a deep scowl upsetting his features, though Hermione didn't notice – she was too preoccupied with the generous amount of workspace she had gained in a second, and her only regret was that she hadn't acted sooner.

* * *

"Well done Hermione," Dumbledore said as he handed back her essay. "And you, Tom," he turned away from her and passed Tom his essay.

Hermione watched as Tom unrolled his essay very slightly, holding back the scroll with his index finger, just so he could see the grade at the bottom. His face didn't alter one bit as he read it, and he took his hand away, allowing it to spring back into place on the desk. He looked over at Hermione and raised his eyebrow, but she turned away, not wanting to satiate his curiosity.

She unrolled the parchment and at the bottom, written in neat curly writing, which was also a vivid shade of purple, was a large letter _'O'_ with the comment next to it: _'Excellent research, well done.'_

Hermione frowned. She wanted to know _which_ bit was excellent research. If it was the bit that Tom had helped her with then she'd much rather have got an _E_. She sighed and rolled up her essay, putting it into her bag, and out of her mind as she concentrated on the day's lesson.

The time flew by in a flurry of demonstrations, note-taking and practical work, which thankfully Hermione found relatively straightforward. Soon enough they had reached the end of the lesson and it was time for lunch.

"Miss Mercer, a word, if you don't mind?"

It took a few moments for Hermione to realise that _she_ was the Miss Mercer he was referring to. "Oh, yes, of course Professor," she said hurriedly.

"We'll see you in the Great Hall, Hermione," Lucy called over the noise of scraping chairs and chatter.

Hermione nodded and waited behind while the rest of the students hurried out of the classroom, Tom's eyes fixing on her own for a second too long as he walked past her. Once he was out of the classroom, Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the door locked, an eerie silence blanketing the walls.

"He can still hear, Professor, I don't know how, but -"

"I've upped my security measures this time, Hermione," Dumbledore said with a grim smile. "Unfortunately I rather underestimated Mr Riddle when we were in the Hospital Wing, but what's done is done. He won't be able to break through _this_ enchantment, I can assure you."

Hermione nodded. "What did you want to see me about?"

"I just wanted to warn you," Dumbledore said, opening his desk drawer. He pulled out a bag of sweets and turned it in Hermione's direction. "Sherbet Lemon?"

"Oh, no thank you, Professor," she smiled, the comforts of old times making her chest ache as she remembered how much she missed her real home.

"Well they're here if you change your mind," he said, popping one into his mouth and setting the bag down. He sucked on the sweet for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful before he continued.

"Tom Riddle is _not_ the man he presents himself to be, and you would do well to remember it," he said, his blue eyes piercing into Hermione's brown ones. "He is manipulative and fiercely intelligent, do _not_ become a victim of his."

"I'm afraid I already am, Professor. He was the one who sent me back here," she looked down at her feet, then back up at him once more, wondering whether she was about to be told off for telling him such information.

Dumbledore froze, his wild eyebrows high on his forehead. "Tom sent you back here?"

Hermione nodded.

"That is...unexpected. He sent you back to his own time?"

"I was a bit puzzled over that as well, Professor. What good am I to him here? And in my time, I had already been in his past and he can't have _used_ me for information about the future, because he didn't _know_ anything. And I keep trying to stay away from him, but he _insists_ on pestering me all the time, pretending he doesn't want to know about the future, all sorts of rubbish like that."

"He knows, then? Definitely?"

"He heard everything in the Hospital Wing. I kept trying to deny it but I didn't see the point in the end. I don't think he'll tell anyone else, but the way he looks at me sometimes..." she closed her eyes and tried not to think about it.

"Hmm..." Dumbledore leaned against the large oak desk at the front of the classroom. "How well would you say you have the measure of Tom Riddle?"

"Pretty well, I'd say," Hermione said slowly. "I mean, I know what he's like in my time, and my friend knows him fairly well so...I'd say possibly better than most people around here. _Certainly_ better than the Headmaster," she smiled grimly with her last few words, and Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"I'm afraid the Headmaster is blinded by charm, intelligence, and wit, though we can't hold it against him, most of us are blinded by somebody at some point in our lives."

"When did you know, Professor? That he's not who everyone thinks he is?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I am unsure. I only remember feeling more and more uneasy as he progressed through the school, and the business we had a couple of years ago, perhaps you've been told -"

Hermione nodded.

"- even though he seemed to be the hero of the hour, there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Something that seemed wrong. Something about the attacker being found at that late hour, just as the school was preparing to close, leaving him without a -"

"Home," Hermione finished bleakly.

Dumbledore nodded and sighed. "Just as long as you know the sort of man he is, and that you should be on your guard."

Hermione nodded. "Do you think perhaps I should learn Occlumency?" she asked. "Just in case anybody gets suspicious about me at any point, I can keep my thoughts guarded?"

"Do you think that's how Tom found out about -?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I'm quite sure he _heard_ everything. I don't think he read my mind."

"Well, either way, I think it's an excellent idea. See me in my office on Thursday after dinner and we shall begin lessons," he stood up straight once more and pushed his half moon spectacles up his crooked nose.

"Oh, Professor, I didn't mean - I can try to learn it out of a book, I don't want to trouble you -"

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence her, smiling slightly as he shook his head. "It is no trouble. Thursday evening, my office. And perhaps indulge Tom a little more with his persistent attempts at conversation, you may find out why his older self was so keen to have you back with him in his younger years."

"You want me to...be friends with him? Or pretend to be at least. He doesn't really _do_ friendship."

"Quite," Dumbledore said with a brief smile. "Perhaps let your guard down a little, without _really_ letting it down, and _definitely_ do not fall for his charm. It is all false."

Hermione nodded. "I won't. There's no way I could...I should probably stop talking, shouldn't I?"

"I think it's probably for the best," Dumbledore replied good naturedly. "And just remember, if he starts to irritate you, you can sit there safe in the knowledge that in fifty years time, he'll make an utter mess of the spell that sends you back here. He's not perfect. And he's not infallible, remember that."

Hermione nodded, feeling a little better about the future. Maybe Voldemort really was dead, maybe Harry and Ron were hosting a half hearted celebration, Voldemort was gone, but they had lost _her_. She hoped they weren't too worried, perhaps Dumbledore would be able to tell them somehow, that she was all right. Perhaps his portrait could pass on the message...

"Professor, would there be a way for me to let my friends know that I'm all right?"

"I'm sure they'll have found out soon after you left, not to worry, Hermione. With any luck you'll be able to tell them yourself, in person."

"What, when I'm older?"

"It's only fifty years away, though I suppose that seems like an entire _age_ to you," he smiled fondly. "Lunchtime's almost over, you'd best hurry unless you want to go hungry."

Hermione nodded. "Yes Professor. I'll see you on Thursday."

"Be careful, Hermione."

Hermione nodded once more and left the classroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I'm aiming for updates to be faster now. There'll probably be a turnaround time of about a week on chapters, though this _is_ subject to availability. ;-) Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. It's always great to know what you're thinking and see how enthusiastic you are about this story. This chapter is a little longer than the others (and the next one is a little shorter, truth be told). Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked hotly, coming to a halt as soon as she saw Tom, waiting outside the Transfiguration classroom.

"I was going to walk you to lunch, come along," he turned and began to walk down the corridor.

"You were trying to eavesdrop," Hermione corrected as she caught up with him. "I'd suggest that you _don't_."

"Me? Eavesdrop? I was doing nothing of the sort. How could you think so lowly of me?"

Hermione tutted and he smirked. It seemed to have become a bit of a pattern between them.

"What did the barmy old codger want, anyway?" Tom asked airily as they headed towards the end of the corridor.

"He just wanted to know how I'm settling in. He's my Head of House, he cares about that sort of thing," Hermione lied, her brain working surprisingly fast for such a dishonest task.

"Jolly good, and how _are_ you settling in? Getting used to our old fashioned ways?"

Hermione whipped around, but thankfully the corridor was empty, bar for a group of run down looking first years dragging their feet along the stone floor. Thankfully they were a good few yards back and probably were far too engrossed in their own homework induced misery to notice Hermione and Tom's conversation.

"For Merlin's _sake_, Tom!" she hissed, "don't talk like that in the middle of the corridor!"

"Those first years probably don't even know that it's _possible_ to travel in time, and they're hardly going to assume that one of the seventh years won't actually be born for another thirty five years. Relax, Hermione, you're far too stressed."

"Oh and you wouldn't be stressed if you were in _my_ shoes?"

Tom glanced down at her feet. "I think I'd be more concerned about my feet getting mangled, they're at least five sizes too small for me."

Hermione laughed; she couldn't help it. She laughed more than was actually necessary, for something that was just a passing joke. She stopped walking, becoming incredibly aware of the blood that was pulsing in her veins and the slight tremble in her fingers that signalled a bout of hysteria.

Tom had stopped too. He frowned at her. "Have you never heard a joke before?" he asked.

Hermione looked up at him but said nothing.

"Why are you crying?" his face was contorted with disgust.

"I'm not _crying_," Hermione said in a thick voice. She cleared her throat and wiped at her face. It seemed he was right, as usual. It appeared that she _was_ crying, and she hadn't even noticed. They weren't tears of laughter either; it had, after all, been a rather poor joke. Something that Fred or George would come out with on a bad day, one of those groan-inducing jokes that Dads usually supplied.

Tom rolled his eyes and grabbed her by the wrist, pushing open the door of the nearest classroom and pulling her inside. He closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Hermione's eyes flicked around the room, looking for the other available exits. The only one she could see was the window, and she didn't much fancy a forty foot plummet onto the grass below.

"What?" she demanded finally. "What do you want?"

Tom pushed himself away from the door and walked towards her. "Hermione, if you have any hope of keeping this little ordeal of yours a _secret_, then I suggest you don't burst into tears in the middle of the corridor. Apart from being a dead give away that all is not as it seems, it's wholly unpleasant for whoever is walking with you."

Hermione looked down at the floor and wiped at her eyes again. "And you wouldn't care? You wouldn't care if your entire life was ripped away from you? You wouldn't care if you'd been living through hell, and then you go and get sent back in time and you know you've got to live through it all again and _more. _Obviously you wouldn't give a damn about leaving your friends and family behind, because you've never given a damn about anybody -"

Tom's eyebrows raised ever so slightly, though he did not interrupt her rant.

"- but I _do_, and being here without my best friends feels _wrong_. And the worst thing is, you see, every day, the person who sent you back here, but you can't do a single thing, because you'd be _messing with time_. So you have to sit, and watch, and be a _good girl_, and you have to start again from scratch, I mean, for Merlin's sake, Tom, I don't even have a name!"

"Are you quite done?" Tom asked, his tone mildly curious.

Hermione stepped forward, but he caught her just before she tried to push past him.

"I don't mean that rudely, I was just wondering if you'd finished unloading all your troubles, because _I_ would like to say something."

"Well I don't want to hear it. Nothing you say could ever make me feel better."

"You need to hear it, and it may not be what you want to hear, but somebody has to say it," he still had a firm grip on her upper arm, in case she tried to push her way to the door again.

When Hermione didn't respond, he continued. "As much as it pains me to say this about _any_ Gryffindor," his eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he spoke, each word sounding as though he was throwing away a little of his pride as he said it, "you are a very talented witch. You are strong willed, you are determined, and you are the only person I have ever met who would bother to sit down for another hour just to make sure an essay – an essay that has little to no consequence in all reality – is one hundred per cent perfect."

Hermione frowned. Was she supposed to take that as a compliment? It sounded like one, for sure, but this was Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle did not dish out compliments to muggleborn Gryffindors.

"But for Merlin's sake, girl, you've got to pull yourself together! Those vapid little wretches you hang around with -"

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but Tom spoke before she could even get a word in.

"Don't contradict me, you're making do with people you can tolerate, that's fine. It's not the point, the point is girls like _that_, would spend all their time crying and whining about how unfair it all is. Life is _not_ fair, and you have to deal with what you're given, and if you don't like what you've been given, you have to do something about it. You have to take something that you _want_."

"I want the next fifty years to vanish," Hermione said sulkily.

Tom shook his head. "Out of the question, I've looked into it, there's no way in hell you're getting back, not even by using...morally questionable methods."

"You looked into it?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I? Your dilemma is _fascinating_. And if you're really unhappy here you may as well go back if there's a way, but there's not. I don't think there'll be a way for a long time yet. There might never be a way, it might be utterly impossible, but I can safely say you're going to have to take the slow path."

Hermione frowned. It almost sounded as if he had wanted to _help_ her, but that couldn't be right. She had barely spoken to him, made it quite clear that she did not want to be friends, and after all, Tom Riddle did not _help_ people, he only helped himself.

It dawned on her that she may have rattled him more than she realised. Perhaps he had taken her seriously when she had warned him not to underestimate her. Perhaps he thought it was better for _him_ if she was sent back to the future. She could unravel everything right now if she really wanted to. There'd be disastrous consequences most likely, but he didn't know her well enough to be sure that she _wouldn't_. Though surely it would have been easier for him to kill her and disguise it as some sort of bizarre accident, wouldn't it?

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and tried not to think about such an occurrence.

"If you feel the need to talk about all of this," Tom said, "then I am willing to listen. With any luck having some sort of outlet as well as intelligent conversation will keep you from wailing in lunch breaks."

Hermione glanced down at the hand which was still holding her in place. The ring was sitting comfortably on his little finger, the stone in the centre still intact, concealing his soul. "Why would I want to talk to you when you wear that awful ring so _proudly?_" she pushed his arm away from her and started to walk towards the door.

The little colour in Tom's face drained, though he quickly recovered. "You don't like the design? Or do you think silver would suit me better than gold?"

Hermione turned around, her expression set, as though it had been carved out of stone. Tom straightened his back, trying to hold his own against her in the body language war.

"One word," she said. "It begins with 'H'."

Tom's eyes flicked shut, a fraction of a second too long for him to pass it off as a blink. "Hexagon?" he suggested, plastering a false smile on his face.

Hermione did not smile. "As long as you wear that ring, I'm not going to talk to you."

She left, slamming the door behind her. A glance at her watch told her she was already twenty minutes late for her lesson. She could go left, and apologise to Professor Vaxicon, or she could go right, and spend the afternoon in Gryffindor tower.

She thought it best to make a decision quickly, before Tom left the classroom and found her standing there like a spare part.

* * *

"What happened to you?" Joanne asked when Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table that evening.

"I didn't feel well," Hermione lied.

"D'you think you should go and see Madame Rotherby?" Lucy asked, frowning in concern.

"No, I'll be fine," Hermione replied, smiling briefly.

"Maybe you'll feel a bit better after you've eaten something," Lucy added, "the chicken's really good tonight, try some of that."

"Yeah, maybe I just need to eat something," Hermione agreed, jabbing her fork into a piece of chicken and placing it on her plate.

"What did Dumbledore want?" Joanne pushed the potatoes towards Hermione.

"Oh he just wanted to see how I was settling in," the lies were coming thick and fast now, and Hermione found it was easier to lie when she was helping herself to food, keeping her hands busy and her eyes focused on what she was doing, rather than who she was talking to.

"Has he been looking out for you then? I suppose he would do, he always looks out for the first years, and you're new here too so I suppose he's just as worried about you as he is about them."

Hermione nodded. "Yeah, he's really nice. He's made it a lot easier. You've all made it a lot easier actually," Hermione glanced up and smiled, genuinely. It wasn't a lie after all. Settling in during seventh year had been a lot more comfortable than settling in during her first year. Perhaps she had become more tolerable as she had grown up, or perhaps Lucy, Joanne and Ava were just a lot friendlier straight off than her old classmates had been.

Lucy huffed, and Hermione glanced towards her, then followed the line of her scowl. Tom was climbing onto the bench at the Slytherin table, in between the two seventh years who always flanked him at meal times.

"Two knuts if you don't mind!" Ava said cheerfully, holding out her hand to Lucy.

"All right," she grumbled, "I'll sort it out later."

"What was the bet?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Lucy thought that Tom had died," Ava said smugly. "I bet her two knuts that he hadn't."

"Patrick said that he wasn't in Defence Against the Dark Arts _either_. We knew Professor Dumbledore had asked to talk to you so we just guessed that had overrun, but Tom _never_ misses lessons. He'd _die_ before he'd miss a lesson."

"I think you're maybe thinking a little bit too literally," Hermione said with a smile, which dropped the second Lucy shrugged her shoulders and looked away. "And hopefully, as well," she added as an afterthought.

Lucy choked on her pumpkin juice, but quickly recovered, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "So you two weren't having a secret romantic liaison?"

Hermione's jaw dropped.

"Well we didn't rule it out," Joanne said quickly. "He always seems to be looking at you. He never looks at anybody, but he looks at you. We just thought it was odd, and then you were both 'absent' _and_ he was hanging around outside the corridor when Dumbledore was talking to you."

"Yeah I know," Hermione said grumpily. "He was just being nosy."

"Oh," said Lucy, signalling the end of the topic. "Oh Ava! Did you hear? Simon and Emily broke up!"

"_Really_?" Ava replied, her voice bristling with interest. "Tell me more..."

Hermione ate her dinner quietly, half listening to the gossip about various Hogwarts couples whose relationships were supposedly on the rocks.

"I'm going to see Professor Vaxicon," she said at last. "I'll see you up in the common room later."

"Oh okay," said Ava, "d'you know where her office is?"

"Fourth floor, isn't it?" Hermione asked, fake uncertainty causing her to crease her eyebrows and heighten the pitch of her voice.

"Yeah, she's got that suit of armour with the graffiti on its shield outside her door."

"Oh yeah, I know," Hermione said, getting to her feet. "I'll see you later."

* * *

Hermione knocked gently on the door of Professor Vaxicon's office. It opened, almost instantly. Tom was standing there, smirking at the sight of her.

"It's Miss Mercer, Professor. Shall I invite her in?"

"Yes, yes, jolly good, I shan't have to go through all of this twice," the Professor replied distractedly. Hermione could see her shuffling through some notes at her desk, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Tom stood aside, opening the door further. He gestured for her to enter and Hermione caught sight of his hand, particularly his little finger, which was completely devoid of the ring.

"Take a seat dear," Professor Vaxicon said, glancing up at Hermione briefly. She reached behind her chair for a collection of scrolls, her long tatty sleeve swinging far too close to the hovering candles that provided the only light in the room.

Tom twitched, and Hermione knew why. Never mind the dark arts, Professor Vaxicon needed defending from her own lack of common sense. As talented a witch as she was, Hermione couldn't help but find her complete lack of spatial awareness somewhat alarming. She threw a sidelong glance to Tom, who rolled his eyes briefly.

"Ah! Here we are! Today's lesson...you didn't miss much actually, nothing you two won't be able to catch up on at least. Where did you get to anyway?"

"Oh I wasn't feeling well Professor, I thought maybe I should give the afternoon a miss."

"Ah very well, very well. And you, Tom?"

"I went to go and check on my Potions project and lunch and it seems somebody has sabotaged it, so I had to spend the afternoon correcting it before it melted half of the dungeons. I assure you I'll make sure I am up to date with everything by the next lesson, Professor."

"I know you will be, Tom, don't worry. You're probably further ahead than the others anyway," Professor Vaxicon said, sliding her finger down the lesson plan on her desk. "Ah yes, homework! Chapter thirty-six in your text books, I want it read and summarised, no need to go into too much detail, I just want to know that you've read and understood. In for Friday, if you please."

"We don't have you on Friday, Professor," Hermione replied. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, but not Fridays."

"Oh? Really? I told everybody Friday...hmm, I suppose it'll have to be Tuesday then."

Tom glanced at Hermione once more, his patience visibly wearing thin.

* * *

"She's such a scatterbrain," he hissed once they were out of earshot of her office. "Why in the name of Merlin Professor Dippet employed her, I'll never know."

"Because she knows the subject well and teaches it in an accessible and understandable manner?" Hermione suggested mildly.

"Oh come off it, Hermione. The woman doesn't know her wand from her watch, she's a nightmare."

"I suppose you'd teach it better, would you?" Hermione asked boredly, remembering Dumbledore's suggestion that she indulge Tom's attempts at conversation just a little.

"You know I would," he said, as though it were obvious.

"Who sabotaged your Potion?" Hermione asked, already knowing the answer.

Tom raised an eyebrow, "I'll tell you if you tell me which curious disease you were struck down with for a grand total of five hours."

"Fair enough," Hermione agreed.

"Anyway, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm no longer wearing the ring. So now you can talk to me," Tom said, changing the subject.

"I _had_ noticed," Hermione said stiffly. "But I bet you haven't destroyed it, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that's suicide," he snapped.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Good night Tom."

She turned away from him, and began climbing the stairs that led to Gryffindor tower, while he descended to the dungeons.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews everybody! We have now broken the hundred mark and I squealed VERY loudly when that happened, hahah. Shameless plugging now: there's a sequel to The Night Before the Morning After, called The Years that Followed the Morning After. It's enjoying daily updates and there's lots of Tom, Abraxas and Arcturus, plus Emily, the little cutie who was too young for Tom. Also I posted a one shot called Sweet Scandal about Tom Riddle Sr and Merope. It's cute, I quite like it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"You have to clear your mind of everything; try imagining a blank space enveloping all of your thoughts and feelings. Remember, it's not just what the attacker can _see_ that will give you away – if they can sense that you are tense, then they'll know you are lying."

Hermione nodded and tried to wash all of her thoughts away but each time she achieved anything like a blank space, another thought popped into her mind, arrogantly painting away the white walls she had mentally built.

"Are you ready?" Dumbledore asked.

Hermione shook her head, her eyebrows drawn together in a troubled frown.

"It won't be perfect the first time," he told her gently. "And I can assure you I will have seen much worse in other people's minds than I could possibly see in yours, if that's what you're concerned about."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh bitterly.

Dumbledore sighed and sat down in his chair. "Is it that bad?"

"Well, it's no barrel of laughs," Hermione said, her shoulders sagging in defeat as she temporarily gave up on her quest for an empty head. "But my best friend was at the centre of it all...and I was with him too."

Dumbledore nodded. "Well, I suppose that makes it even more important that you learn to be a competent Occlumens," he said. "The effects of your knowledge leaking out could be disastrous, so we must take every possible measure to stop that from happening."

Hermione blinked and looked at the floor. "What if...what if I didn't remember at all? What if there was no knowledge, and thus no risk?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "It would do more harm than good, do not even attempt it."

"It was just an idea," Hermione said quietly, "I think I'd be too much of a coward to go through with it though. I wouldn't want to forget them."

"We can't afford to forget those who have loved us, otherwise we live a life without love, and a life without love can lead to terrible things."

"You're telling me..." Hermione said quietly, her mind flicking to Tom as it did more often than not these days. She pushed her hair out of her face and let out a deep breath. "So, a blank space," she frowned for just a moment. "I'm not used to not thinking," she said with a small smile.

"The trick is to make your attacker _think_ you're not thinking. You can still think, but you will need to learn to think more deeply, leaving the surface of your mind clear."

Hermione nodded, and imagined her white space again, pushing away any thoughts that tried to intrude upon her process. She looked up at Dumbledore, not wanting to speak in case it ruined the wall she had created, and he nodded once, before raising his wand.

* * *

"Bit of hush please, folks," Slughorn was sat at the front of the dungeon, his round belly visible over the desk, like a large tweed sun rising over a wooden horizon.

The class silenced almost immediately, most students pausing as they packed their books into their bags. Some, more eager to leave, students continued, sliding their belongings off of the desk quietly, looking up at Slughorn and pretending that he had their full attention.

"Now, for next week I want you to prepare a presentation on a potion of your choice, as long as it is not one we have previously studied. I want to know what the ingredients are, how it's brewed, what the effects are, common errors and any legal constraints upon it. This is the bare minimum I expect," he stood up, arching his spine, one podgy hand resting on the small of his back. "Of course some students will be able to provide us with more information," he looked at Tom, who smirked, just a little, "but I will expect you all to deliver a full, informative presentation in next week's lesson."

Hermione looked around, noting the scowls on the Slytherins' faces and the looks of frustration worn by the members of the other houses. Slughorn hadn't seemed to notice.

"I will also expect you to all take notes on each presentation. In previous years, several of the presentations have proved useful in the final written exams that you will be taking for your NEWTs. Now, I've organised you into pairs -"

There was a collective groan from the class. Being organised into pairs by the teacher had never, not once in the whole of history, been beneficial to _anybody_.

Slughorn ignored the obvious lack of enthusiasm and ploughed on, reading names from a scroll of parchment, held at arms length from his face so he could make out the untidy writing.

"Dylan, you'll be with Shyanne, Richard and Eric, you're together, and last but not least, Tom, you'll be with Hermione."

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to remain calm. She had expected this. The further Slughorn had got down the list without reading out her or Tom's names had caused the blood in her veins to grow colder and colder. He looked over and smiled widely at her. She contemplated bashing her head against the desk for a moment before she realised that this would seem to be an overreaction for being put with a person who was actually the most intelligent student in the school.

"Professor, I can't work with Richard, he's a Gryffindor," Eric said, his hand raised, nose scrunched up as he glanced sideways towards Richard before looking back at Slughorn.

"It's not a _disease_, boy," Slughorn replied. "Get on with it. You don't have to be best friends, you just have to work together. Tom and Hermione are managing to get on with it!"

"Yes," Tom agreed. "As a seventh year you should be setting an example of inter house unity to the younger years," Tom said, turning to Eric, who sighed but stopped arguing immediately.

Slughorn winked at Tom and he nodded, as if giving the Professor permission to continue.

"That's all then. I don't want to hear any arguments about pairings now off you go," he turned around and went back to his desk, as everybody got to their feet to leave. He opened the drawer and rifled inside before he pulled out a chunky piece of crystallised pineapple and popped it into his mouth.

Hermione whipped her head round to look at Tom and he was already standing next to her desk.

"Come on, to the library!" he said cheerfully.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times. However no words formed and Tom waved his wand, sending all of Hermione's belongings neatly into her bag.

"Come along," he said, "enough chit chat."

Hermione stood up and he handed her bag to her. She took it from him, but made no move towards the door. The classroom emptied around them and soon became too quiet for her to talk to him without Slughorn overhearing so she swung her bag over her shoulder and headed towards the door.

"Cheer up, you _could_ be stuck with Vera," he said as they strolled along the corridor.

"Funny how Slughorn's got some crystallised pineapple isn't it?" she said, her eyes focused on the corridor ahead, moving a little closer to Tom to avoid getting trampled when a group of burly sixth years passed them in the corridor.

"Is it?" Tom asked mildly. "You've got an _odd _sense of humour Hermione."

"Did you bribe him?"

"I wouldn't say _bribe_," Tom replied, and Hermione could see his lips twisting into a smile out of the corner of her eye. "How did you know?"

"I told you, I know everything about you," Hermione said, frowning at some first years as they ran down the corridor and up the stairs.

"Walk!" Tom called after them, his voice filling the hallway.

The first years froze, looked behind them and then continued their journey at a more reasonable pace.

"You don't know everything," he added, a moment later. "You might think you do, but you don't."

Hermione looked over at him, but he was avoiding her eye. Was there more to him? Or was she just underestimating how much she _actually_ knew about him? She had played a pretty major trump card when she revealed what she'd known about the ring, but if there _was_ something she didn't know, would it be worse? Worse than a Horcrux? There wasn't much that could top a Horcrux in terms of evilness, granted, but she wouldn't put it past Lord Voldemort to come up with something.

* * *

"What about this one?" Tom asked, leaning against one of the shelves in the restricted section, a tatty leather bound book open in his hands.

Hermione looked over his shoulder, her face contorting when she saw the diagrams on the page. "Put that away!" she scolded. She pulled another book off of the shelf and scanned the index.

"There's nothing interesting in there," he told her, taking the book out of her hands and putting it back on the shelf.

"Well what are we going to do then?" she demanded, her hand resting on her hip as she waited for an answer.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her stance. "Not something _boring_."

"What do you define as interesting then? Something that causes immeasurable pain?"

"It'd certainly be a good read..."

Hermione huffed, pushed open the door of the restricted section, and headed out into the main area of the library. Tom rolled his eyes and followed her.

"Something new," she said when he caught up with her.

She was flicking through the magazines in the media archives, pausing whenever she passed an interesting looking potions journal, before skewing her lips to one side and continuing her search.

A magazine appeared in front of her face, the cover fresh, not faded, as so many of the magazines in the library were. She took it from him, and read the main splash on the cover.

_GOT SPATTERGROIT? _

_DAMOCLES BELBY HAS A CURE._

Hermione's lips curved upwards in a small smile and she nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Let's do that."

"Does it _work_ though?" Tom asked, "I'm not wasting my time doing a presentation on something that doesn't even work."

"Fair enough," Hermione said, and she passed the magazine back to him.

"So it's a load of old dung then?"

"What do I know? It might work, it might not. But right now, nobody knows for sure."

Tom stepped forward, blocking her against the cabinet. "_You_ know."

Hermione leaned away from him, her back pressed uncomfortably against the handle of one of the drawers.

His eyes searched hers and Hermione immediately imagined a blank space, hoping it would be enough to deter him if he was attempting to read her mind. Three lessons in and she was beginning to get a grasp on Occlumency; it wasn't a very strong one, but it was still a grasp of some sort.

"All I want to know is if it will be a waste of time. I'm not asking for anything unreasonable."

"You're asking to know more than the rest of the world knows," Hermione said, sidling between Tom and the cabinet.

Tom grabbed onto the cabinet, his arm blocking her in.

Hermione froze, a lump forming in her throat as she looked up at him. He was a good a eight inches taller than her, his grey eyes staring her down.

"Let me go," she whispered.

"Just make a decision as to whether we can do this for our presentation. It's not _difficult_, Hermione."

"Let me go," she repeated, closing her eyes as she tried to tell her heart to stop racing.

"Yes or no," he said, not making any move to release her.

"Tom I need to get out of here," she said, though try as she might she was unable to keep her voice steady.

He sighed and dropped his arm. Hermione pushed past him, rushing out of the library as quickly as she could. As soon as she found an empty classroom, she went in, locked the door and slid down to the floor, her back resting against the wall.

She covered her face with her hands, breaths coming out in short sharp bursts, eventually slowing, along with her heart rate.

It had hit her for the first time in the library how real her situation was. Somehow, the idea that she was at school with Lord Voldemort hadn't really sunk in. But now, with her fingers still trembling and her skin raised in hundreds of tiny goosebumps, she realised that she was working, on a Potions presentation, of all things, with a wizard who would become so feared by the entire magical world that no one would ever dare say his name.

There was a click as the door unlocked and was pushed open. It bumped gently against Hermione's toes and Tom peered around the edge of it. He said nothing, and closed the door behind him.

"Did I scare you?" he asked.

"No," Hermione said defiantly, not meeting his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to, I just don't like to waste my time and I consider it to be a waste of my time to learn about something that doesn't even work."

"It's a slippery slope though," Hermione said, pulling some fluff off of her woollen tights. "If I tell you about that then what's next? Do I tell you what happens next week? Next month? Next year? In fifty years?"

"I wouldn't ask," Tom said. "Because I know you won't tell me."

"You wouldn't let me go when we were in the library," Hermione said. "Just over a stupid potion. If you were that concerned about that, then what about more important stuff, concerning _your_ future? Where will you stop then? You wouldn't think twice about using the Cruciatus on me, would you?"

"I wouldn't think _once_," Tom said, squatting down so they were on the same level. "I wouldn't hurt you and I'm _sorry_ that I scared you."

Hermione laughed and looked away. "Liar."

"No," Tom said. "I'm being honest. I do _not_ want to hurt you. Not even for information about the future."

"Yeah, I'll believe that in fifty years time..." Hermione muttered.

"In the future, do I know what happens? Do I know anything?" his palms were resting flat on his knees, and Hermione found it hard to feel intimidated, despite the panic he'd thrown her into when they'd been in the library.

This was what he was good at though, this was what Dumbledore had warned her against. This was why Hepzibah Smith would allow him into her house every week, and this was why Professor Dippet could sleep soundly with a murderer prowling his corridors every single day.

"I don't know..." Hermione said quietly.

"That means no, but you don't want to admit it. So obviously you never told me anything. And obviously I never hurt you."

Hermione sprung to her feet. "In fifty years time you will perform the Cruciatus Curse on me in front of hundreds of people while my best friend is lying dead on the floor. Then you will send me back here, to go through even _more_ rubbish, _and _everything I've already been through all over again! So excuse _me_, if I find it difficult to believe your lies about not wanting to hurt me. The reason you won't know anything is probably because I'll have died before you get any information out of me, _not_ because you're a good boy who doesn't take what he wants when he wants it."

Her eyes widened as she realised what she had done and her hand flew to her mouth. "Forget that," she said hurriedly. "All of it, forget it."

Tom stayed still, his eyes looking at the wall that Hermione had been sat in front of just a moment ago. His hands were clasped together, his expression blank.

"Tom, forget it," she said desperately.

He didn't reply.

She bolted from the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews of the last chapter guys, mucho appreciation is being sent your way. Not sure when this will next be updated - February is a heinously busy month for me - 11 gigs plus hauling ass all over the country, plus lectures, plus assignments equals TOTAL nightmare. But hey, I'm sure it'll be worth it. I'll get to do lots of writing on the train anyhow, but I'll probably have a lot of catching up to do typing wise at the end of it all. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, things will be hotting up very shortly. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"Am I making it sound boring? It sounds boring doesn't it?" Hermione sighed.

"Well it's hardly going to be the most entertaining thing anybody's ever heard is it?" Tom said, flicking the page of the magazine over, trying to sap every last atom of information out of the article.

"Did you get a reply from Belby?" Hermione asked, putting her notes down and taking a seat opposite him.

"Yes," he said, his attention still on the article. He took a letter out of his bag and passed it to Hermione, who scanned through it quickly.

"Well that's great!" she said, "all the patients in St Mungo's are showing vast signs of improvement according to him. One of them's even started talking again!"

Tom tutted and looked up from the article. "Don't sound so surprised..." he looked back down again before he threw the magazine onto the desk. "There's barely anything in there. It'll cover...three minutes, tops. And they'll be the most boring three minutes anybody's ever sat through in their life."

Hermione groaned and put her head in her hands. Their presentation was due the following afternoon and this was their last chance to put any finishing touches on it. She could see Eric and Richard having a whispered argument on the other side of the library, looking as though they had accomplished nothing at all. It was only a very small comfort that her and Tom's presentation would be better than theirs, at least.

"How can we make it interesting?" she asked, gripping her bushy hair between her fingers before she released it and sat back in her chair. She folded her arms and waited for Tom to answer.

"A demonstration?"

"Oh yes, let's just haul in a victim of Spattergroit and chuck some potion down their throat. I'll leave that one up to you then."

"It was just an idea," Tom said sulkily. "Why don't you think of something?"

"Because all you've done for the past three hours is stare at that bloody magazine!" Hermione hissed.

A few fifth year students revising at a nearby table whipped their heads around at the disturbance, faces set in an expression of disapproval, ready to tell off the noise-maker.

"Problem?" Tom asked mildly, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

They shook their heads and turned back to their work, one of the girls casting a shy glance back to their table, looking quickly away again when she realised Tom was still watching them.

"We could make it more visual," Hermione suggested, tearing her eyes away from the fifth years and back to Tom. "Maybe put up some bullet points so it's easier for people to take notes."

"I'll let you do the writing," Tom said, picking up the magazine again.

Hermione snatched it from his hands. "That won't help," she reminded him. "And I won't _need_ to do any writing. We can use the Perlustro Charm."

Tom frowned and Hermione waved her wand. A screen appeared, hovering in the air. As Hermione spoke, reading from her notes, bullet points began to appear on the screen, summarising what she was saying.

Tom laughed.

"Well it was only an idea," Hermione said, lowering her notes, the screen vanishing with a sharp jab of her wand. "No one really wants to listen to us talk, it's just a way for Slughorn to get out of teaching." She huffed and sat back in her chair, fiddling with a loose thread on the cuff of her robes.

Tom smirked. "You're becoming more cynical by the day. I approve."

Hermione's cheeks tinged pink, but Tom continued as though he hadn't noticed.

"And I _like_ the idea. It's just that I'm ninety-nine percent sure that that spell does not exist."

Hermione's mouth formed into a small 'O', though no sound escaped her lips.

"Yes," Tom said, mock disapproval raising his eyebrows. "Oh, indeed. Where did you learn it?"

"In a Charms lesson...third year I think," Hermione told him.

"Did you learn who invented it?"

Hermione shook her head, then flicked a rogue strand of hair out of her face.

"Perhaps..." Tom began, resting his mouth against his thumb and forefinger, his eyes narrowed in concentration and staring into space as he thought. "Maybe..."

"If you feel like finishing your sentence any time soon," Hermione said, "then be my guest."

Tom smiled, the skin around his eyes creasing just a little in the brief moment before the smile dropped. "Maybe it was never invented. Maybe you learned it in the future, then brought it back here and your future self learned it after you passed it on. A sort of...circle of time, if you will."

"Sounds plausible," Hermione agreed. "But there's no proof. We'd better not use it."

"I'm going to use it then," Tom said. "Slughorn will give us Outstandings before we even open our mouths. Can you use it for pictures as well? We could put up some of the pictures of the victims that are in the magazine," he pulled the magazine towards him and flicked quickly through the pages until he reached the article. "See?"

"You're _not_ going to use it," Hermione said firmly. "That would be stealing somebody else's work!"

"Only possibly, and if so, who cares? It's not exactly ground breaking stuff, I haven't invented a cure for werewolves. What's the problem?"

"Do you have _any_ sort of moral compass?" Hermione demanded, pulling the magazine out of his hands. She was tempted to hit him with it, but did not like the idea of the consequences she would unquestionably face. She had no idea what they would be, other than utterly horrible, of course.

"Hermione, I am willing to bet you all the gold in Gringotts – and believe me, I could get my hands on it if I really wanted – that you using that spell is the reason that you learn it in fifty years time. Don't argue with me. You know it's true, you're just being overly cautious, as _always_."

Hermione smiled. "You really think you've got me pegged, don't you? I'm a little goody two shoes who's never broken a rule in her life, right?"

"Slightly hysterical at times, incredibly stubborn, desperate to prove yourself, and seeing as you're in Gryffindor I'd hazard a guess at you being _brave_," he said the last word with an air of disgust, his nose wrinkled and his top lip curled.

"Just you wait fifty years," Hermione said, and for a change she was the one smirking. "You won't know what's hit you."

"You know how you're so concerned about me torturing information out of you?" Tom said, with the same amount of pleasantry that Hermione might have expected if he was asking her about her plans for the weekend.

She decided it would be best to say nothing.

"Well you're not exactly helping yourself, throwing about all these tantalising hints and not expecting me to want to know more."

"I'm comfortable with the future," Hermione told him, not breaking eye contact. "I couldn't care any less about what happens to me here."

Tom frowned. "Your utter disregard for your general well-being is quite worrying. Were you this careless in the future?"

Hermione looked sharply around them to make sure nobody heard and Tom rolled his eyes. When she was satisfied that nobody was listening in, she spoke. "What do I do? After this year? These lessons are the only thing that's keeping me sane, but then what? I'm just going to disappear, I know it, I'll just stop existing or I'll meet some tragic end and –"

"You're here. For good. This is your life. It always has been, and it always will be. You can either live it, or you can merely _exist_. Your choice. And if you want to live it, I think the best way would be to claim the credit for that Perlustro Charm tomorrow afternoon."

"Tom I don't think it's a –"

"_Trust me_," he said, cutting her off. "It'll be fine, stop worrying."

"As if I'm going to trust _you_," Hermione retorted.

"You will. It might take a while, but you will. Don't worry, I'll be patient. You'll need me eventually," he stood up and took the magazine from Hermione's hands, replacing it on the rack near the media archives.

"What's the matter?"

Hermione jumped at the sound of his voice. "What? What d'you mean?"

"You look as though you've seen a..." he trailed off.

"Ghost?" Hermione supplied.

"Well, yes, but it's not very fitting seeing as they're all over the place. Are you muggleborn?"

"Yes," Hermione replied firmly. "And proud of it too."

"Good for you," Tom said with a false smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He left, and Hermione wondered whether she had made a mistake by revealing that information to him. She had more pressing concerns though. Tom had gone, but his words still seemed to be hanging in the air.

"_Trust me."_

"_I'll be patient."_

"_Patience and trust, Hermione, patience and trust." _

She didn't move for another forty five minutes.

* * *

"As you can see from the images here, there has been a significant improvement in Mr Wallace's health over the last three weeks," Tom gestured towards Hermione's screen, which was currently airing a slide show of pictures, which were various degrees of gruesome.

Several people pulled disgusted faces at the sight of the pustules, but did not look away from the photos.

"This is history in the making, ladies and gentleman. And this, is the future. Thank you for listening." Tom smirked as a small ripple of applause echoed around the dungeon.

Hermione flicked her wand and the screen vanished, taking the unpleasant images with it.

"Very good!" Slughorn said, getting to his feet, beaming. "This is the future indeed! What was that charm you used there?" he directed the question towards Tom, despite Hermione having been the one who had cast it.

"The Perlustro Charm," Tom informed him. "It's one of Miss Mercer's own creations. She suggested that we use it for our presentation and I thought it was an _excellent_ idea."

Hermione remained quiet, while Tom played his modest card.

"Your _own_ creation Miss Mercer?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, her cheeks growing slightly pink as she took the credit for something she didn't deserve.

"Very _very_ well done," Slughorn said. "Excellent! I shall inform Professor Dippet of your discovery! Very useful little charm that one! Top marks, both of you! A very informative and interesting presentation."

"I'm glad you think so Professor," Tom said with a smile. "We didn't want to bore you with things that you already know inside out, so we thought we'd choose a recent breakthrough."

"Well I'm very glad you did. Now, Eric, Richard, you're up next."

"Sir, I'm afraid we won't be able to follow _that,_" Eric said in an oily voice.

"Of course you won't, you haven't got a tenth of the brains that Tom and Hermione have between the pair of you, but you'll have to do your best, won't you?" Slughorn sat down and pulled the drawer of his desk open. He pulled out a large piece of crystallised pineapple, winking at Tom as he and Hermione sat down and Eric and Richard moved to the front of the dungeon.

Hermione watched as Richard and Eric fumbled their way through a presentation, mentioning several potions, all of which they had already studied. Slughorn watched with a critical eye, occasionally popping another piece of pineapple in his mouth.

Tom slid a piece of parchment across the desk towards Hermione.

_See, I told you. _

Hermione pushed it away with a roll of her eyes.

* * *

"I hear you came up with a new invention," Dumbledore said as Hermione took a seat in his office.

Hermione sighed.

"Not yours?"

"It's not _anyone's_," Hermione told him. "I learned it, in the future, and I didn't think about it when I suggested to Tom that we could use it for our Potions presentation and then he went ahead and told me that spell didn't exist. He said if I wouldn't use it then he _would_, and the reason I learned it in the future was because I used it here, essentially inventing it."

Dumbledore pressed his hands together, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

"I'm a fool, aren't I?"

Dumbledore paused before answering. "I won't deny that you ought to be more cautious in the future," he said. "Though I think perhaps Mr Riddle was right, on this occasion. He _would_ have used it himself, thus leaking it to the world. You have, after all, always been here. The past does not change your future, your future is as concrete as yesterday, unless you make a conscious attempt to alter everything. For example, were you to murder somebody who is still alive in your time, then everything would begin to unravel, however, the fact that you live here changes nothing, do you understand?"

"I _think_ so," Hermione said with a frown. "As long as I don't try to change _my_ past, the future is safe? But any..._ accidents_, they always happened anyway?"

"In a nutshell, yes. Caution is always advised, however, Hermione."

Hermione nodded and silence fell.

"He bribed Professor Slughorn," she told him after a short while. "So he could work with me."

"Really?" Dumbledore's blue eyes lit up with interest.

Hermione nodded. "Crystallised pineapple. Professor Slughorn adores it. He always gives Tom what he wants if he's got a box of that."

"_Most_ interesting," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Unfortunately, Professor Slughorn is the sort of man who _can_ be swayed by simple gifts. He'll do nothing if he sees no gain in it for himself, short term on long term. I would expect nothing less, however. He is, after all, Head of Slytherin house."

Hermione let out a short laugh.

"Yes, I think it would be best if you kept that quiet. It would not go down well if the Professor thought I was being discourteous about him while his back was turned. I do, of course hold a lot of respect for Professor Slughorn. He is a very good teacher, and a credit to the school."

"Of course, Professor," Hermione said with a wry smile. "I'll keep it quiet."

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Now, your Occlumency lesson..."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** WOW! It's been a while. February turned out to be even MORE hectic than first envisioned and I ended up on stage 3 times with my favourite singer. It's been a bit of a WTF time if I'm honest. I kind of lost my way with this a little bit, and didn't have much inclination to write it, but I might be getting back into it now...I don't really know. Studying writing means that writing becomes a bit more of a job, than a pleasure, which probably isn't a great thing, but there we are, I can't really complain. Hope you like this chapter!

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

Hermione watched as Arcturus skulked around the library, narrowing his eyes at Tom as he passed his table.

Tom had his head bowed over a book, and didn't even notice the overt hostility. At least, he appeared not to. Hermione wouldn't have been surprised if he was completely aware of Arcturus' every movement, every facial expression and, possibly, every thought.

Hermione picked up her books and her homework, crossing the library rapidly, her bag banging against her thigh as she walked. She set her books down and sat in the seat opposite him. He looked up, mildly curious.

"Good evening," he said politely.

"Why doesn't Arcturus like you?"

Tom tutted in a patronising way. "You really should learn some manners, Hermione."

"I haven't got time for manners, particularly not when I'm talking to you, just tell me," Hermione said briskly.

Tom laughed. "On the contrary, Hermione, you've got all the time in the world. You may want to take a few lessons in persuasion. I could teach you many things, you only have to ask."

Hermione sighed. "What's the point in me dancing around the issue? If I was trying to be..._persuasive_, you'd see right through it anyway because you've learned all the tricks of the trade."

"Are you saying I'm _persuasive_?" Tom asked, his lips curving into a smirk.

"You've certainly got most of the school thinking you're a poor orphan boy who has made a name for himself by his intelligence and dedication to his studies. Does Arcturus know what you are?"

Tom frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Hermione said, wondering whether she ought to say what was on her mind. She looked around and saw plenty of people. He wouldn't do anything in front of an audience, she knew him well enough to be sure of that. "There are two sides to who you are, one he might look down on, and one he might be jealous of."

Tom's face twitched, and Hermione knew he had realised immediately what she was getting at.

"I'm not going to _tell_ anyone," she said, "it doesn't even matter to me. I just want to know why he hates you when all the other boys in your house _worship_ you."

Tom's sour look dissolved into a smirk. "I like the word 'worship'," he told her. "Very nice..."

"Tom, you're getting off the point," Hermione told him, her brown eyes fixing his grey ones with a firm stare.

"Arcturus _believes_, as his elder brother Leopold did, and possibly still does, I wouldn't know, I haven't seen him for two years. Anyway, he _believes_ that as a..." he trailed off, apparently not wanting to say the words 'half blood' where there was a risk of others hearing him. "Well, he thinks I'm not worthy enough to have the...position that I do, amongst our house mates, and indeed, most of the school."

"So he's jealous and prejudiced?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," Tom said. "He's _most_ envious of my achievements. His father finds it utterly disgraceful that...someone like myself achieves higher grades than either of the boys from the noble and most ancient house of _Black_."

"And Malfoy, he's with you?"

"Yes, why?" Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Just curious. Does he know that you're...?" Hermione thought it best to follow his lead and not say it out loud.

"He does, but Malfoy is much less stubborn and much less intelligent than Arcturus, oh Arcturus is intelligent, I'll give him that," Tom cut Hermione off before she had the chance to speak. "Malfoy wants reflected glory, and he has no shame. He's willing to do many things in order to get it as well, which is _most_ useful."

"Did Arcturus know that you were the one who..."

"Who what?"

"Did anyone know? Any of your...I would say friends but you don't really count them as such, do you?"

Tom's face was blank. "You'll have to be clearer."

Hermione sighed and picked up her quill, scrawling two words on one of the note pages at the back of her homework diary.

_The Chamber_.

She slid it across the desk to him and she saw his jaw set as soon as he read the words. He pointed his wand towards them and they vanished from the page.

"So you _did_ know what I got up to in fifth year," he murmured. "Well well, aren't you a clever girl?"

"Do they know it was you?"

"No."

"So they don't know who you're descended from?" Hermione asked in a hushed voice.

"Of course not," he whispered sharply. "If I were to tell anybody I can guarantee that the news would reach Dippet's ears within the hour. And if _you_ tell anybody," his expression said everything that needed to get his message across, though he finished his sentence anyway. "There _will_ be consequences."

"I'm not _going_ to tell anyone," Hermione told him. "I _can't_."

"_Good_," Tom said, closing his book. "Whilst _the_ future is set in stone, _yours_ is not."

"I thought you said you wouldn't hurt me," Hermione said, her voice empty of emotion as she stared at him, her brown eyes a little less bright than usual.

"I said I don't _want_ to hurt you, and that still stands. Should you consider telling anybody anything that could jeopardise my plans...I'm a Slytherin, I put myself first."

"I would expect nothing else," Hermione said.

"Good," Tom replied, standing up. "That being said, I think we should attend the Slug Club Christmas party together."

Hermione was pulled from her apathetic state of mind with an uncomfortable yank. "What?"

"The Slug Club, I take it you received your invitation."

"Yes but I wasn't planning on _going_," Hermione said, obviously.

"I'd recommend it. There will be several of Slughorn's contacts there and –"

"I know how the Christmas party goes, thank you," she said pointedly. "And with that knowledge, I don't _really_ want to go again." She grimaced as she thought of Cormac, and tried to put the image out of her head.

Tom laughed. "I think it would be in your interest, and we are _expected_ to go in pairs. Unless you've got your eye on one of the brainless dolts in Gryffindor, of course..."

"I'll owl Slughorn on the night and send my apologies. Perhaps I'll have a cold..."

Tom shook his head and left her in the library, sitting alone.

* * *

"Tom! Hermione! Good to see you!" Slughorn was wearing a tight fitting black suit, complete with bow tie and cummerbund. Both of these accessories were so constricting that Hermione was concerned that Slughorn might turn into a string of sausages at any minute.

"And you, Professor," Tom said inclining his head. "I trust you are well?"

"Oh I'm just fine, m'boy, just fine. Are you two an item then? Two brightest students in the school, it's a smart match! Pardon the pun, of course."

Tom smiled, though the colour drained from Hermione's face.

"No sir, we're not an item. Just here as friends," Tom glanced over to Hermione, his teeth showing through his smile. "Though I daresay I could do a lot worse than Miss Mercer."

"That you could, Tom, that you could," Slughorn agreed. "Help yourselves to Butterbeers, I've got some people I'd like the two of you to meet. Barnabas Loxley, he's head of the Department for International Magical Co-operation, he'd be able to set you up with some good opportunities Tom, I've told him all about you, he seems very interested."

Tom smiled, feigning interest.

"Hermione, have you thought about a career path?"

"No sir, I'm afraid I haven't really given it much thought," Hermione said apologetically. She _had_ considered it before, but all career choices had been put on hold by the war, and now she wasn't sure what she wanted to do. She still hadn't settled into her new life, so thinking about what job she'd like after she left school had barely crossed her mind.

"You ought to start giving it some thought, m'girl," Slughorn said imperiously. "I'll introduce you to everybody tonight and perhaps that will give you a helping hand. You're a very talented Potion maker, perhaps a career in Healing? Rufus Prewett, the tall red headed one, you see him?"

Hermione couldn't miss him – he was at least a foot taller than all the other guests at the party with bright ginger hair to top it off. She was painfully reminded of Ron. Of all the Weasleys, for that matter.

"He's an old student of mine, one of the top Healers at St Mungo's! Just been over to America to give a talk to the Grand Institute of Healers. _Very_ high up."

"Oh right," Hermione said awkwardly, glancing at Tom pointedly.

She would never admit it aloud, but she could have kissed him when he smirked knowingly and sprung into action.

"Sir, is that Alexa Deetrix?" he asked, his voice bursting with false astonishment.

"Yes it _is_, Tom! Have you read her essay?" Slughorn dumped his empty brandy glass on a passing tray, his round cheeks slightly red from the heat and the alcohol.

"I have sir, I found it _utterly_ fascinating."

Slughorn called over the woman in question, who, Tom muttered to Hermione out the side of his mouth, was the author of an in depth study about all twelve uses of dragon's blood. She approached, her face lighting up slightly when she noticed Tom.

"Alexa my dear, this is Tom Riddle, our Head Boy, brilliant student, he tells me he found your paper fascinating, and this is Hermione Mercer, joined the school this year, but absolutely brilliant! You're talking to the two star students!"

Alexa smiled, though mostly at Tom. She was tall, taller than Hermione at least, with dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. It looked as though she had given herself a temporary face lift with the severe style, and her bright blue eyes held none of the mischievous twinkle that Dumbledore's did.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said. She had a hard voice, though she tried to cover it with a small amount of girlishness, and a flash of a smile.

"Likewise," Tom replied pleasantly. "You were one of the Professor's students?"

"Oh, a long time ago now," she said, offering up another smile. "I haven't set foot inside this castle for...fifteen years?"

"Fifteen years? Merlin's beard! How quickly the time flies!" Slughorn exclaimed, one hand resting on his belly while another reached out for a glass of brandy, offered silently by one of the many waiters.

"It does indeed," Alexa said. "It feels like it hasn't been any time at all since I was here myself, as a student. You must think me an old woman."

"Nonsense!" Tom said with a smile. "You don't look a day older than twenty five."

"You _are_ a charmer, aren't you?" Alexa said, touching him on the arm gently.

"Oh Tom certainly knows what to say, and when," Slughorn chortled.

"Professor!" Tom said, pretending to be shocked. "You make it sound like I'm a liar!"

"Oh I never said that, m'boy. Don't take it like that. You just have a talent for winning people over, that's all I was saying," he winked at him, his moustache bristling.

"Of course, Professor," he smiled again, Alexa's eyes fixing on his handsome features. Tom slipped his arm around Hermione's waist, pulling her close to him. She would have fought it, though thought it unwise to make a scene in front of Slughorn, who raised one bushy eyebrow at the action. Furthermore, he had saved her from many awkward conversations by pretending to be interested in the sharp look woman in front of them, who was now eyeing him up like a piece of meat. Hermione supposed the least she could do was to accept his arm without complaint, letting him make his statement quite clearly.

Alexa spoke only to Tom after she noticed Hermione's closeness to him, and Hermione couldn't honestly bring herself to say that she was upset by the turnout.

* * *

"_Merlin_, I thought we'd never get out of there," Hermione sighed, pulling clips out of her hair as she walked, allowing it to fall down over her shoulders.

"It will be worthwhile in the end, especially if you need a temporary job while you decide what you _really_ want to do. Are you going to take that job that Loxley offered?"

Hermione shrugged, shaking her hair out with her fingertips. "Maybe. There are all sorts of things in the Ministry, I'll probably find something suitable in the end."

"Yes, most likely. Are you keen on a life of dullardry and beaurocracy?"

"No, I'd much rather be fighting dragons and breaking into Gringotts every other week..."

Tom snorted. "As if you could ever break into Gringotts."

She almost smiled, then frowned when his hand came to rest on the small of her back. "What are you – "

Tom pushed her against the wall, his mouth covering her own as he kissed her. Both of her wrists were held tightly above her head, and it took a moment for Hermione to pull them out of his grip and push him away.

"Have you lost your _mind_?" she managed to shriek, yet remain quiet at the same time.

"No, actually," Tom replied casually.

"What in the name of Merlin do you think you're _doing_?" she demanded in the same hysterical whisper. She was lit only by the moonlight, pouring in through the leaded windows, casting a blue glow over her skin.

"I would have thought it were rather obvious," he said.

Hermione was about to respond when he held a hand up, silencing her. There was an uneven set of footsteps resonating from the staircase leading to their corridor. If Pringle caught them out of bed, despite Tom's Head Boy status and their permission to be out late after Slughorn's party, he would cause a great deal of fuss before he allowed them to return to their houses. Hermione hadn't been in this time for very long, but she wouldn't put it past him to haul them all over the castle to speak with several sleepy, pyjama clad teachers before he was satisfied that there was no rule breaking in occurrence.

Tom pointed his wand at the nearest door, and there was a click as it unlocked. He pulled Hermione inside quickly, locking the door again with a complicated wand movement that Hermione knew could not be counteracted with a simple '_alohomora_'.

"How _dare – _"

"Oh be quiet!" Tom hissed, bent low with his ear pressed against the door. After a minute or so he seemed satisfied, and straightened, turning to face Hermione.

"Why did you do that?"

"I wanted to."

"You don't even like me."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "What gave you that idea?"

"You don't like anybody."

Tom chuckled loudly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "You've got me there, I'll admit."

"So why did you do it?"

"I told you, because I wanted to. I don't have to _like_ you to want to kiss you. You intrigue me, that's all. I like a good puzzle. I like solving them even more."

"By which you mean you think I'm a foolish little girl who'll fall head over heels for you because you're handsome and intelligent and witty and then I'll tell you every detail about the future because you'll _promise_ not to tell anybody?" Hermione's hand was on her hip, her eyebrows drawn together in a stubborn frown, lips pressed together.

"You think I'm handsome?" Tom smirked.

"We're getting off the issue," Hermione snapped.

"No, we're not really, because intelligent and witty, well, they're facts, solid and concrete, undeniable. Handsome...that's a bit more subjective."

"Actually," Hermione said, "I think you'll find that humans with symmetrical facial features are, on the whole, judged to be much better looking than those with _asymmetrical_ features. It's just the way the brain works, so don't feel _too _special, will you?"

"It's how _your_ brain works," Tom said, taking a step towards her. "And that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

"Not really," Hermione said with a shrug.

"Why?"

"You're not my type."

Tom snorted. "And what is your _type_?"

"Well I suppose I like men who are intelligent, and witty, and you know, have a pretty clean slate when it comes to murder."

Tom's jaw dropped slightly but he recovered quickly.

"Door?" Hermione's eyebrow was raised expectantly.

He waved his wand, there was a quiet click, and Hermione left.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Suuuurpriiiiiiise! Yes, it's me. This is an update. I know, weird, huh? I totally lost my mojo with this, no doubt I'll lose it again once I've posted this chapter, but hey, at least this is something. I hope you guys like it, it's certainly been a long time coming. I'm finished for the summer now so writing no longer feels like a job, and hopefully I'll get this all wrapped up before I head back in September. Enjoy. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

Christmas Day was a lonely one.

Hermione awoke to an empty dormitory, with a rather weak ray of sunlight doing its best to brighten up the room, and failing miserably. The small pile of presents at the end of her bed surprised her, and it wasn't until she saw the tags on them that she realised that they had been intended for _her_. She hadn't expected anything, what with there being no family, no Harry and Ron, no Mrs Weasley, but Lucy, Joanne and Ava had seen to it that she didn't start the day empty handed.

She opened the box of Honeydukes chocolate (from Ava) and helped herself to a rather large chunk, ignoring the voice in her head (that sounded suspiciously like her mother) which told her that chocolate for breakfast was a one way ticket to Denture Town.

After padding about the deserted common room for a while in her dressing gown and slippers, she decided to get showered and dressed then head down for breakfast.

It took a while for her to get out of the portrait hole – excuses such as 'you're not really that hungry, and you'll be having a huge dinner later' and 'you can always pop down to the kitchens and get a slice of toast' kept cropping up in her mind. Eventually, however, she managed to force herself to leave the comfort and safety of the common room and ventured down to the Great Hall for a quiet breakfast.

"Morning," he said, from behind a battered copy of _Advanced Potion Making_.

"Morning," Hermione replied stiffly, pouring a glass of orange juice and trying very hard not to send it sloshing all over the table. She succeeded, and after a short while, Tom placed his book carefully on the table.

"Merry Christmas."

"And to you," Hermione kept her gaze on the slice of toast that she was spreading raspberry jam onto, watching as her knife caught the reflection of the grey and cloudless sky above them.

"How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?" she frowned, and set her knife down on her plate.

"Having a family to go home to at Christmas and then _not_ having them? How does it feel to spend Christmas here?"

"It's not the first time I've spent Christmas in this castle."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Why are you so interested?"

"I don't understand the hoo-ha about families. They just seem to be an inconvenience."

"I don't expect you'll ever understand the _hoo-ha_ about families. You're not exactly the caring type, are you?"

"My mother didn't even bother to keep herself alive for me."

"I know."

Tom's eyes flashed, suddenly darker, almost black. "If she didn't give a damn about me, why should I give a damn about her?"

"Think of the position she was in," Hermione said softly, glancing over to the teachers' table, where Dumbledore was (thankfully) watching them curiously. She didn't feel altogether comfortable, talking to Tom about his mother, not when he had _that_ look in his eyes.

"Her own fault."

"It was _not_. She was raised as a slave, practically. Do you have any idea how badly your grandfather treated her? _Do you?_"

"How would you know how my grandfather treated her?"

"You can't possibly expect me to tell you."

He straightened his back, waiting for her to continue.

"There was no money, she'd had little education, and she was in love."

He looked disgusted at the last word, but Hermione ploughed on regardless.

"When your father left her, it completely broke her. She had nowhere to live, no one to love her, and no money to be able to give you any decent sort of life. Admittedly, she wasn't the strongest person in the world, and many people would have changed that around, but she had a horrible life, I think she was rather glad it was finishing. I don't imagine she saw the point in living, if she didn't have your father."

"And I wasn't worth living for?"

"She knew she wouldn't be able to provide a decent upbringing for you. As terrible as the orphanage is, you have a roof over your head, food on your plate, and people to take care of you if you get ill or hurt yourself. She would never have been able to guarantee that, and you know it. Look at you, you've got a promising life ahead of you. You're well educated, you're healthy, and even though the orphanage doesn't feel like home, you have a home here. She gave you that."

"I have a promising life ahead of me?" Tom seemed to have casually ignored all the in depth knowledge that Hermione had gained about his past through Harry's trips into Dumbledore's pensieve, concentrating solely on her knowledge of his future.

"You do. But you're going to waste it." She picked up her toast and took a bite, attempting to appear nonchalant. She avoided his eye – if he saw her checking for a reaction, he'd see right through her act. He'd probably seen through it already.

"Waste it how?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You didn't honestly expect me to answer that, did you?" Hermione asked incredulously. "How idiotic are you? How idiotic do you think _I _am?"

Tom opened his mouth to answer, lips curved into a smirk.

"Don't even bother, I'm not in the mood."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"About how it feels, to not have your family anymore."

"I still have them, they're just not here."

"Yes but you're not going to _see them_ again."

Hermione's stomach began to twist itself into knots. She had tried to steer clear of thinking so pessimistically. She had tried to make do with the life she had here and ignore the constant ache of everyone she cared about being so far out of reach. Her parents still had the memory charm on them, they weren't even aware they had a daughter, let alone a daughter that was trapped fifty years in the past with no way out.

She pressed her lips together, her eyes starting to itch as unwanted tears began to form. She sniffed, widening her eyes in an attempt to drain the tears away without him seeing. She couldn't let him know how much she was hurting. He'd find it hilarious.

"That's how it feels?" he asked softly

She looked up, eyes red, and nodded.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head, lips curved into a wry smile. "You're really not."

She got up and left.

* * *

As was routine for her when faced with uncomfortable situations, Hermione headed to the library to bury herself in books. The one time she had locked herself in the toilets to have a good cry had been rather eventful for all the wrong reasons, and she had quickly learned her lesson after that – when in doubt/distress/waking hours – head to the library.

Her holiday homework was already completed (foolish, she should have spread it out more evenly to keep herself occupied, but of _course_ she hadn't thought of that at the start of the holidays) and so she grabbed a book at random from the shelves, hoping it was one she hadn't already read, she disappeared to the far corner, transfiguring a hard wooden chair into a comfortable squashy arm chair and settling into it, knees tucked up to her chest, book resting against her thighs.

After reading the same paragraph seven times without taking in any information, Hermione realised that reading was definitely _not_ going to be a sufficient distraction today. What she needed was good company. What she needed was Harry and Ron, avidly discussing quidditch, or Ginny ranting about how Michael kept grabbing his girlfriend and snogging her every time she walked past as though he was trying to _prove_ something. Even Neville, awkwardly asking for help with his Charms homework would have been welcome, in fact, even _Malfoy_ would have been better than sitting alone in the library on Christmas day, tears clouding her vision as she wished and wished to be home.

She couldn't do anything by wishing. She couldn't do anything about her situation whatsoever, and wishing was only torturing her, offering up possibilities that were _impossibilities_, yet she continued to wish away, closing her eyes, arms hugging her knees against her body, dreaming of what she'd be doing on Christmas with Harry and Ron. What she'd be doing if she were spending the day with her parents. She even dreamed about spending the day at her least favourite aunt's house, with her superficial cousins who were usually so dreadful to spend more than five seconds with.

She missed them.

She wondered if they missed her.

She wondered if they even knew. Probably not, it wouldn't happen for another fifty-odd years.

She wondered if Tom had managed to kill Voldemort, or whether Voldemort had turned his wand on him, after he'd seen to her.

She wondered if she was better off here.

* * *

The cracker emitted a _bang_ that would have usually made her jump out of her skin, despite the fact that she already expected it. Today, however, she was desensitised to everything that was going on around her. Dippet's mini speech to kick off the Christmas feast had gone unheeded, Tom's forced chatter floated in one ear and out the other, and Slughorn's bellowing laugh didn't even cause her to bat an eyelid.

"You won."

She looked down at the larger portion of the cracker that was in her hand and shrugged, setting it down on the table.

"What's _wrong_ with you? You're not still moping about over your family, are you?"

Hermione ignored him and pushed a roast potato around her plate with her fork, before dropping her cutlery with a clatter and resting her head on the palm of her hand, sighing heavily.

"Why did the Grindylow blush?"

She didn't hear him, and he frowned at the small piece of paper in his hand, and then at her.

"_Hermione_. Why did the Grindylow blush?"

"What?" Hermione looked up, and gave him a small portion of her attention.

"Because the sea weed."

"What are you talking about?"

"Because the sea..._weed_. It's pathetic, I realise," he crumpled the parchment with one hand and threw it down the table, where it skittered along the surface, like a stone skimming a lake.

"What are you blabbering about sea weed for?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion and impatience.

"Never _mind_," Tom replied with a roll of his eyes.

Hermione shook her head and picked up her fork, taking a small bite of turkey before giving up again, fork landing loudly on her plate.

"Is it really that bad?"

She looked up at him, and his grey eyes weren't just curious now. Hermione would later swear she had been seeing things, after all she was preoccupied, and wasn't thinking straight, but right now, she could clearly see concern staring back at her, brow slightly creased with what she interpreted as mild worry.

"Yes."

* * *

"There's only two of us, there's really no need to – "

"Miss, you is looking like you is needing a good feed, so don't mind if we gives you plenty."

Hermione looked down at her skinny wrists and pursed her lips. Considering the amount of chocolate she had gotten through in the past week, it was fairly unreasonable for the house elves to suggest that she was underweight, yet knowing any protests were futile, she fell quiet, and let them finish packing the basket.

It took her ages to find him, and the last place she expected him to be was at the top of the astronomy tower, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, head resting against the cold stone wall behind him.

He looked up when she appeared through the archway that led to the staircase, scowling as she interrupted his alone time.

"Come to watch the fireworks?" he asked, getting up and pulling his gloves on. "Don't worry, I'll go."

"No, I came to see you, actually."

He froze momentarily, then slowly began to pick the small balls of fluff that littered the surface of his gloves. "That's not like you."

"I know."

He let out a short breath of laughter, one side of his mouth pulled into an exasperated half-smirk. "Why the change of heart?"

"It's your birthday."

His hands dropped to his sides and he whipped his head up to look at her. "How would you know that?"

"So you accept that I know about your childhood and your parents and just how you came to be the way you are, but you can't accept that I know which day you were born on? You amaze me."

"I amaze everyone," he wasn't smiling as he said this, and Hermione looked down at the basket on her arm.

"I don't suppose you've ever had a decent birthday before," she said awkwardly, "I just thought that you might like to see what it's like."

"Why?"

"Because families and friends are the ones that make birthdays decent, so maybe you might understand a little more if you find out what it feels like when somebody does something nice for you." She was still looking down at the basket, waiting for him to burst out laughing.

He didn't.

"What's in the basket?"

"Food. I didn't see you at dinner, so I thought I might skip as well and we could eat late, talk, you know, just pass the time. So you're not on your own."

"I _am_ capable of existing without other people around me."

"I know, but sometimes it's nice to have company."

"I'm yet to experience such a feeling, but fine, let's eat."

Finally Hermione looked up at him and they sat down on the floor together, basket between them. He took his gloves off once more and set them down before rummaging through the basket to inspect its contents.

"Merlin, how hungry d'you think I am? You could feed a small _army_ with this." He pulled a large ham out with a puzzled expression on his face and continued emptying the basket.

"House elves," Hermione explained with a shrug.

He rolled his eyes knowingly, and uncorked two bottles of Butterbeer.

* * *

"Why fireworks?" Tom asked, as explosions of colour scattered across the night sky with high pitched whistles and deafening bangs. He dug his spoon into his slice of cake as he leaned forward against the wall, looking out over the grounds, little dotted lights of muggle towns just visible in the distance.

"Why not?" Hermione asked.

"Yes but _why not_ run naked around the lake three times?"

"Because it's _cold_," Hermione said, matter-of-factly, breaking off a piece of her own cake with her spoon and popping it into her mouth.

"So you'd do it if it was summer?" his attention had left the fireworks and was now on her.

"No, I'd just come up with a different reason – there are _plenty_."

Tom smirked and turned back to face the grounds once more. "They're just noisy. What's so good about colour and noise?"

"I don't _know_. But you get some that are really pretty. I suppose they're just nice to look at. It's a way of showing that you're celebrating, that things are good, you know?"

Tom shrugged. "Who said New Year's Eve was something to celebrate in the first place?"

"Maybe they're all celebrating your birthday," Hermione said, her mouth curved into an amused smile.

"It wouldn't surprise me."

She laughed softly, and finished off the last of her cake before taking both of their empty bowls and placing them on top of the basket.

"Has it been nice?" she asked after a little while, curious as to what he'd made of the evening.

"It's been different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"_Okay_ different."

"That means good then," Hermione said confidently, arms resting on top of the wall, an almost smug smile on her face.

"So this is how amazing it is to have friends and family? Because frankly while it wasn't unpleasant, I wouldn't be devastated if it didn't happen again."

"No, it's not like it at all. We barely know each other and you have the emotional capacity of a salamander. A _dead_ salamander. But if you times how nice this was by a billion, you've got what it's like."

Tom raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "So what's it like to go without?"

"Turn it in on itself, as good as it feels, that's how bad it feels. And then times _that_ by a billion. You're almost there then. And then times _that_ by how many people you're without, so in my case, fifty, sixty?"

"You _love_ sixty people?"

"I _care_ about sixty people. Some of them I love, some of them I'm incredibly fond of, some of them I can't stand but _still_ miss them terribly. It's ridiculous."

"It sounds it," he agreed. "I'm glad I've always been without. It just sounds like hassle, losing people."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I've never really cared about what happens to anybody."

"I know."

"But I think I care about what happens to you."

Hermione turned her head to face him, but he wasn't even looking in her direction. "What did you just say?" she asked breathlessly, not daring to believe that _those words_ had come out of his mouth in _that order_.

"I think if you died I would find it to be a shame," he said stiffly, still staring at the fireworks.

In spite of her general dislike of him, and her knowledge of what he was to become, she smiled, almost laughed, but stopped herself in time. Embarrassing him probably _wasn't_ the best idea.

Finally, he looked at her. "You've completely given up on me, haven't you?"

She hadn't so much given up on him as never given him a chance in the first place. There was no way around it, and if they changed time it would without a doubt have disastrous consequences for all. She wasn't foolish enough to think that time would change, or he had the ability to change, so it was with pride and confidence that she turned to him and simply answered with a decisive "Yes."

"Don't," he said quietly.

He kissed her, and this time she didn't push him away.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Woooow is this the fastest update ever in the history of this fic? Haha. I was in no doubt spurred on by the response to the last chapter - we've passed the 200 mark! I'm utterly thrilled, so I just want to say a massive thank you to everybody who takes the time to review this fic. Mega mega mega amazing, the lot of you. Internet cookies for all! I have no idea what's happening in the next chapter, but with any luck I'll think of something in the next week or so. (She says). Anyway, hope you enjoy this. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"Something's not right," she said, sitting down heavily in the squashy armchair opposite Dumbledore. It was the second Thursday back after Christmas, and she was in another of her private Occlumency lessons with Dumbledore. The sky outside the leaded window of his office was already pitch black, tiny stars blinking in the distance.

Dumbledore straightened in his chair, wearing an expression of mild curiosity. "With your Occlumency or just in general?"

"Just in general," she said, fidgeting in her chair, fingers twisting as she tried to think of a way to best communicate her concerns without damaging the time line any further. She wondered what the consequences of her and Tom's little New Year's Eve party had been, if any at all. Did Voldemort even remember that they had shared cake at the top of the astronomy tower? She had to repress a shudder when her mind drifted to what else they had shared.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Dumbledore asked, pressing the tips of his fingers together, his blue eyes looking at her patiently over his half moon spectacles.

"It's Tom."

"I'm afraid there isn't much we can do about Tom Riddle."

"Well that's the thing," Hermione replied, "Tom Riddle isn't acting at all like Tom Riddle. He's almost...human."

"Tom has always been a good liar, Hermione and –"

"I know," Hermione said, shocking herself at her audacity – she had never interrupted the Professor before, perhaps being around Tom so much was having a bad effect on her. "I know when he's lying though, and he rarely bothers to even attempt to lie to me because he knows what I know, and he knows there's no point, but this is just _confusing_."

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Tom Riddle has fooled almost everybody he has ever come into contact with on this Earth. Please, Hermione, do _not_ make the mistake of thinking you can trust him. Tom Riddle does not understand the concept of friendship, or _love – _"

"I _know_," Hermione repeated, interrupting Dumbledore for the second time, though he did not show any sign of offence, merely his usual willingness to listen. "That's what I've always been told and it's what I always believed. It's what makes _sense_. At first I could tell, I could tell what he was and what he would be. I could _feel_ it. Now...he just seems...I don't know...he doesn't feel _evil_ though."

"Hermione," Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair, his palms flat on the oak desk between them. "Tom Riddle knows where you are from. Do _not_ risk your life by being close to him. He wishes to use you for his own ends, as most people in this castle would, though his ends are rather more sinister than the usual troubles about the future that most people have."

Hermione considered his words. They sounded sensible, after all, they were talking about Lord Voldemort and anyone in their right mind would stay away from him. "It still feels like something's not as it should be."

"Perhaps you came here with too fixed an idea of what Tom was like? Perhaps you believed him to be outwardly evil, and are surprised by how charming and pleasant he can be?"

"No..." Hermione said slowly, her eyebrows creased into a frown. "I knew he'd be a good liar...I don't...I don't know."

"Exercise caution," Dumbledore said. "Trust nothing he says."

Hermione nodded.

"Now, if you'd like to clear your mind, we shall practice."

Hermione did as she was told, though her attempts at Occlumency this time were far worse than her previous lesson.

* * *

"You're quiet."

"Yes."

He smirked and pulled the chair out opposite her, sitting down in one graceful movement. "Any reason?"

"No."

He brushed her short replies aside. "I've been offered a job for when I leave school," he said, and Hermione glanced up. Tom looked as though he could barely contain his excitement. His eyes were lit up with a brightness she rarely saw in them, and he was _almost_ smiling, though at the last second it turned into a smirk. She couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"Where?" she asked simply, setting down her quill in order to give him her attention, if only for a short while.

"The Ministry. It's quite a senior position for a school leaver but they seem to think I'm up to the job."

"The Ministry?" Hermione asked, her arm sliding on the table and knocking her bottle of ink to the floor. Tom waved his wand and cleaned up the mess before she even realised what had happened. "And you're going to _take_ the job?"

"_Absolutely_," Tom said, frowning slightly, apparently confused as to why she thought he might not. "I'm going to be assistant to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Do you have any idea how many doors that opens?"

"You want to work in the Ministry?"

"I have political ambitions," Tom said plainly. "Law Enforcement seems to be a good place to start."

"_Political_?" Hermione repeated, her mouth slightly agape as she digested this new piece of information. "You want to go into politics?"

"I do, and I think I have some rather good policies that will get me plenty of support. Plus, you can guarantee most of the staff will vote for me, and several of the students once they come of age. It'll be a good few years before anything _really_ happens but patience is a virtue..."

"Right," Hermione said, eyes wide and blank. "What are these policies, exactly?"

"Vocational training for those who don't want to take their NEWTs but still want to further their education."

"That sounds...incredibly reasonable."

"There's no need to sound alarmed."

"What are your policies on muggleborns?" she asked, knowing she was most likely setting herself up for a raging argument in the middle of the silent library.

"That they be thoroughly checked, as well as their immediate family. Do you know the memory modifiers have been called out on _forty two_ occasions in the last two years, purely because muggleborns or their families have started shouting about witches and wizards to whoever will listen? It is _dangerous_ for us, and so I plan to be much more selective about the people we allow to join our world."

Hermione's stomach plummeted as she realised she couldn't _really_ find much fault with this. Even in her time there were some muggleborns who had got into trouble, or their families, because they had let slip (or boasted, in a few cases) about their magical power. While it might be a little drastic and unfair to those who would get left behind because of loud mouth parents, it certainly wasn't anything like the anti muggle sentiment that she had expected he would throw at her.

"I have to go," she said quickly, packing her books away, not looking at him as she tried to run the details over and over in her mind.

"Why?" he asked.

"Are you absolutely _sure_ about politics?"

Tom hesitated, and looked down at the desk. "It was my second choice."

"And your first?" Hermione asked.

"Teaching. But Dippet said I was too young."

Hermione felt the colour drain from her already pale face, her heart jumping into her throat as she realised that there was no doubt about it. Time had been changed. For good.

"Bye," she said quickly, and before Tom could even utter another word, she was out the door of the library, rushing down the corridor, skipping down the stone staircase, before hurtling down another corridor, skidding and almost losing her balance as she turned the corner at the end. Professor Merrythought exclaimed loudly as she almost collided with him, and she threw a hurried "Sorry Professor!" over her shoulder before finally reaching her destination.

Peering through the small, square pane of glass in the door, she could see that Dumbledore was still teaching his third year class, all of whom had varying looks of interest on their faces. Those sat at the front had the keenest expressions, eyes bright as they drank in every word that Dumbledore said, while those at the back only found themselves listening because Dumbledore wasn't somebody they could ignore. Hermione's admiration for him grew exponentially. In her classes, all of the students were there because they wanted to be, so Dumbledore didn't have to try particularly hard to make them listen. The younger students were much more difficult, and this was the first time she had seen him teach the lower years. While Professor McGonagall was a wonderful teacher, she couldn't help but feel a little envious of the children who were sat in there now, who would have seven years of teaching from Dumbledore.

After five minutes of anxious waiting, during which she bit her thumb nail down as far as was possible with human teeth, the class began to file out quickly, before they headed off to their lunch break.

"Come in," he said pleasantly, holding the door open for her. "Would you like a sherbet lemon? They're wonderful, I've only just discovered them." He offered her a small glass bowl containing individually wrapped sweets and she took one, laughing as she unwrapped it.

Dumbledore smiled in amusement. "The start of a lifelong habit?" he asked.

"Mustn't tell," Hermione replied good naturedly, though her words came out a little jumbled as her mouth had become rather preoccupied with the sweet.

"What can I do for you?" Dumbledore asked, sitting down and unwrapping a sweet for himself. He popped it in his mouth, his cheeks narrowing as he sucked it briefly.

"Politics," Hermione said, leaning against the front row of desks.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to help you with such things. I tend to stay out of politics, too many people who think they're much cleverer than they are."

Hermione didn't manage to suppress her laugh, especially after her recent conversation with Tom.

"Why the sudden interest?"

"Tom wants to go into politics," she said. "Or so he said just now. He's got policies and everything."

"Yes..." Dumbledore said slowly. "Professor Slughorn did mention he had political ambitions...though Professor Dippet tells me he asked if he could stay on to teach after this year. I'm not quite sure he's ready to let go of the castle just yet."

"So he _actually_ wants to be Minister? It's not just something he's saying because he thinks it's what people expect to hear?"

"Well, that is always the trouble with Tom, one can never really tell. Why the surprise?"

"He's been offered a job."

"I did hear, he seems to have made a good impression with the Ministry," he said, and Hermione briefly wondered whether Dumbledore knew everything that happened to each person in the school, or whether he just paid special attention to Tom.

"He's going to take it."

Dumbledore surveyed Hermione's worry torn face for a good few seconds, then tilted his head up in a half nod of understanding. "And he's not supposed to."

"_Exactly_."

"Perhaps it will change; there's still a few months before you take your exams, and I do believe the position was dependant on him receiving all Outstandings for his NEWTs."

"Yes but _you said _he doesn't _have_ Ministerial ambitions! So even if he doesn't take the job he still wanted it, he still _wants_ to go into politics."

"I did?" Dumbledore asked, mildly bemused.

Hermione clenched a fist slammed it down onto the desk she was leaning against, though not so forcefully that Dumbledore showed any sign of noticing. "You _will_. You will and it will be the _truth_ because you're the one who knows him best, so why on Earth is everything happening differently?"

"Hermione, I don't really know him at all."

"You know him a hell of a lot better than Dippet does!" she was raising her voice slightly now, and once she realised it, she bit back her next sentence, took a breath and continued in a more even tone. "You know him far better than Slughorn does too, and he's his Head of House! Even when Tom opened himself up completely to him, more or less _told_ him what he was planning on doing, Slughorn _still_ decided to ignore it and treat him like he's the most perfect person to ever walk the planet."

She had probably said too much, and this was evident in the fact that Dumbledore was pressing his lips together, curiosity for once becoming too strong even for him to risk opening his mouth. Silence fell and Hermione looked down at the classroom floor, guilt washing over her. How could she storm in here and expect him to have answers which he wouldn't be able to give for another fifty years? He couldn't tell the future, and he couldn't explain away things that his older self had said in her past. But this was _Dumbledore_. Surely he would know something? Surely he would be able to say something that would ease her worry over Tom so she could focus instead on being stressed out over her exams?

"Will time progress as it always did? If I was always here, will it still –"

"Only as long as you don't make a conscious decision to change it," Dumbledore answered, his blue eyes piercing her brown ones. "For instance, were you to kill me right now, I daresay it would change things rather a lot, but having this conversation, does not."

Hermione nodded. Dumbledore dying fifty years too soon was the last thing she wanted to think about. Even in her own time it had been fifty years too soon. She supposed that whenever it came, it would have always been fifty years too soon – with people like Dumbledore, it always was.

"Keep battling on, Hermione. I can only imagine how difficult it must be, seeing him walk about, probably the most vulnerable he will ever be, and not being able to change what he becomes, but you _must not fail_. After school has finished, you need never see him again. In fact, I suggest you choose those you remain in contact with very carefully. He will no doubt wish to call on your knowledge at some point, and the less people know your whereabouts, the better."

Hermione nodded again, not wanting to think about the day when that would come either.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help," he said after a moment, watching her forlorn expression and sagging shoulders as she sighed heavily. "I can only advise you as best I can, though it is not advice that you are obliged to take, of course."

Hermione smiled. "The general rule, in my time at least, is that if Albus Dumbledore offers you advice, you'd better take it."

He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I fear the future holds rather high expectations of me."

"And so it should," Hermione responded, standing up straight and adjusting the strap of her satchel on her shoulder.

"Have another," Dumbledore said, holding the bowl of sherbet lemons out to her, "you look like you need it."

Hermione smiled once more, and took a sweet, as instructed.

* * *

"Will you take a walk with me?"

Ava stopped speaking mid sentence and a rather shy smile appeared on her face as she looked at the person standing behind Hermione who had just spoken.

"Why?" Hermione asked, flicking the page in her Transfiguration textbook, without paying attention to any of the text.

"Please?"

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Joanne shoot a warning glance in her direction while Lucy merely looked curious.

Ava continued to smile.

"Fine," Hermione said, snapping her book shut and getting to her feet. She checked her watch. "We've got a lesson in twenty minutes though."

"Oh I'm sure it won't take long," he said, stepping aside so she could clamber over the bench. He held out a hand to assist her but she ignored it, having managed perfectly well for the previous six years with no assistance from Harry or Ron. He smirked, and let his hand drop.

"I'll see you in a bit," she said to the girls, who all watched her leave with various degrees of shock on their faces, though there was still a hint of a smile in Ava's expression as she continued to watch Tom until they disappeared from view.

The frost crunched under their feet as they strolled across the grass, cloaks wrapped tightly around them, attempting to block out the January chill. The lake had a few patches of thin ice floating on the surface, reflecting the dull clouded sky above them, through which the sun was not remotely visible.

"I want to talk about what happened," he said after they had been walking in silence for several minutes. "On my birthday."

Hermione didn't meet his eye. She had hoped he would forget it, surely he would want to disregard such an event, considering it was so _human_. She tried to ignore the acid that rose in her throat as she thought about it, and him, and what he would become.

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what I want to say."

Hermione turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. "So you bought me out here in the cold because you _don't know what to say_?"

"I'm not good at this, I don't..._care_ about this sort of thing. But..."

Hermione had almost breathed a sigh of relief, and then he'd said that awful word: But.

He took a step closer to her, and she took one back, her body meeting the wall of the castle behind her. Tom pressed one gloved hand against it, his arm blocking her in, and he took another step towards her closing the gap between them. She glanced to her left, wondering whether she should just run, but that would look far too suspicious. After all, she regularly sat with him in the library, and they often teamed up in potions, why should she be scared of him now?

She wasn't even particularly scared. She was sure he wouldn't do anything right under Dumbledore's nose, especially seeing as he knew how little trust Dumbledore held in him, _and_ as several people saw them leaving the castle together. No, it wasn't fear that was troubling her, it was the sickening feeling in her stomach, which seemed to have risen so it was now a lump at the base of her throat, gurgling away unpleasantly.

"I don't know what I'd like to _say_, but I do know what I'd like to _do_," he said, his other arm blocking her in completely now. She looked up briefly as he got closer, and her stomach seemed to settle a little. Her head was screaming something at her, though she wasn't sure _what_. And then his lips touched hers and her brain might well have not even existed.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Well, I certainly got the writer's block with this one but no matter, it's here now. Hope you all enjoy. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"I think I need to say something to him."

Dumbledore straightened in his chair, his overgrown eyebrows creasing as he surveyed her. He said nothing, just made a small gesture with his hand, encouraging her to continue.

"He's not following the path that he should. And if he doesn't...I mean, I know his time line. I know where he was born, where he grew up, I know about you setting fire to his wardrobe..."

At this comment, Dumbledore's eyebrows raised out of their frown, though he did not enquire as to how she had come across this information. His self restraint remained, as ever, infallible, and he allowed her to continue.

"It all seemed just right, until Christmas, and now, well. It's like I'm in an alternate univ – " she trailed off, her eyes bulging in their sockets, not seeing the wall ahead of her.

"Relax, Hermione," Dumbledore said, reaching out one spindly hand to pat her own reassuringly. "You're not in an alternate universe."

"How would you know?" she asked, wincing after the question came out in a much more accusing tone than she had anticipated.

"One cannot travel across time _and_ universe at the same time. Whilst the curse that was cast upon you was cast rather badly, it was not enough of a mistake to send you into another universe. Magical theorists aren't even sure if travelling between universes is even _possible_, so I am _sure_ you are still in the same universe."

Hermione nodded, although she would have liked a much more concrete answer than 'not sure it's even possible'. That just sounded like famous last words to her, but she took a deep breath, pushing her constant anxiety down into her stomach.

"Do you think I should say something?"

"Do whatever you feel is right."

She groaned inwardly. What felt right to her was allowing him to continue on his politics route, and hope Lord Voldemort never showed up. How many lives would that save? But what if somebody worse came along? What if somebody without Lord Voldemort's shortcomings came along and managed to kill Harry when he was much younger? What if the new person never got defeated?

Of course she didn't know whether Voldemort _had_ been defeated, but that was much too far off for her to be fretting about it now. She didn't think her nails could handle it if she was constantly biting them for the next fifty years, so she put it from her mind.

Hermione left Dumbledore's office an hour later, after a fairly successful Occlumency lesson despite all the to-ing and fro-ing in her head about what the right course of action was. She found, almost unsurprisingly, that her legs were taking her to the library, and when she arrived, she spotted him immediately, in the furthest corner, reading a long roll of parchment that she imagined would be handed in during their next Charms lesson.

"Hi," she said, sitting down in the chair opposite him.

He looked up, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. "Hello."

"I need to talk to you," she said, not sure how exactly she should go about the conversation she was starting, or whether she'd actually make it as far as the whole point.

"So talk," he said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms out in front of him before bringing them to rest on the table, hands linked together as he waited for her to say something.

"You're not..." she sighed as she tried to think of the appropriate phrase. 'A mass murderer'? 'An evil psychopath'? She tapped her fingers on the desk until she arrived at some suitable wording. "You're not who you're supposed to be," she said. "You're not a politician."

His face dropped a little, but he regained his confidence almost immediately. "What d'you mean?"

She leaned forward, her voice low as she whispered, "What does the name Lord Voldemort mean to you?"

To her surprise he began to laugh, earning himself the glares of a table of nearby Hufflepuff seventh years, whose expressions quickly dropped when they saw just who they were glaring at.

"Merlin's beard, you really _do_ know everything about me! I haven't been called that name for over a year."

"What?"

"It was just...look, everything got out of hand...I had these ideas but...well let's just say they weren't particularly _nice_ ideas –"

"I know _exactly_ what your ideas were, and still are!" Hermione hissed.

"No, honestly, I'm done with all of that now. It was foolish. Besides, why take by force what I can take by charm and intelligence?"

Hermione couldn't argue with this, but then she remembered the gold ring that used to sit on his finger, black stone glittering as it reflected the flickering candlelight.

"Have you destroyed your horcruxes?"

He shifted in his seat. "What makes you think I have more than one?" he asked.

"Seven," she said. "Not yet, but that's the plan, isn't it?"

He scowled.

"Lord Voldemort is a name that witches and wizards will fear to speak in the future, and as much as I hate myself for telling you this, that's your future. Not politics, not teaching, Lord Voldemort is – " she stopped talking abruptly as Arcturus Black skulked over.

"Are you finished with that, Riddle?" he asked in a reedy voice, pointing to a brown, leather bound book sitting on the desk in front of Tom.

"Yes, would you like me to _scourgify_ it before you take it? In case any of my half blood germs are on there?"

"No that's quite all right, I believe my immune system has strengthened after sharing a dormitory with you for seven years..." he snatched the book off of the table, threw a poisonous look at Hermione and sauntered away, like an angry cat.

"I don't _want_ that life," Tom said quietly after he was sure Arcturus was out of earshot. "Why be feared when you can be adored? People won't kick up a fuss if they adore me, but if they're _scared_ of me..."

"Lord Voldemort is coming," Hermione said, "whether you like it or not."

She got up from the table and left him to ponder his future.

* * *

"There has to be a solution," Tom said, pacing up and down the empty classroom.

"There's not," Hermione said quietly, perched on the desk by the window, her eyes following him as he wandered back and forth in front of her.

"There's _always_ a solution."

"If there's _always_ a solution then why am I still here?" Hermione asked, fixing his eyes with a firm stare.

Tom stopped his pacing, thinking for a moment before he answered. "Because maybe, I'm not so keen on sending you away."

Hermione's grip on the edge of the desk tightened momentarily, Tom's eyes flicking down as he noticed, then back up to her face again.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"It just means if I really wanted to get rid of you, I'd find a way, but right now, what I really want to do is find a way of not being Lord Voldemort."

"I've _told you_," Hermione began, but she was cut off.

"I don't _care_ what you've told me. I want to live my life how _I_ want to live it, not how you _say_ I wanted to live it."

"Well unless you're planning on splitting yourself in two then it's not going to – "

Tom placed his hand over her mouth and she stopped midsentence.

"Split myself in two?"

Hermione nodded and he lowered his hand.

"Go on..." he said encouragingly, arms folded across his chest as he waited for Hermione to provide him with more details.

"Well, I suppose if you can split your soul into _seven_, you could...I don't know, _grow _a body to hold one of your horcruxes? Then it can live the life of Lord Voldemort and you can..."

"Go into hiding? Not much of a life, is it?"

"Well I don't _know_, do I? You wanted solutions, there's a solution. Take it or leave it."

"How the hell do I make a _body_? I suppose I could use an Inferi..." at Hermione's dark look, Tom stopped thinking aloud.

"You go and work in Borgin and Burke's when you leave school, so you'd probably be best off telling the Ministry you can't - "

"_Borgin and Burke's_?" Tom repeated in disgust. "I work in a _shop_?"

"Yes," Hermione said defiantly. "All sorts of things turn up in a shop like that, you never know what you might find."

She saw it, just momentarily, a flash in his eyes. Curiosity and excitement, as well as hunger for the rare kinds of treasure he knew she was alluding to.

"What might I find?" he asked, moving towards her, placing his arms either side of her on the desk, blocking any exit she might have been able to take.

Hermione's eyes dropped downwards before she looked back at him, smiling as though she wasn't intimidated by him in any way shape or form. He was smirking, and she knew it was because he could see the wobble in her smile, the hint of uncertainty behind her eyes that was always there whenever he made any sudden movements or they were completely out of earshot of anybody who might be able to assist her should he turn into a murderous raging lunatic.

"Well," Hermione said, arching her back to gain a little distance between them. It didn't do her any good however, as Tom leaned further forward to compensate, his eyes glued to hers as he waited for an answer.

"Well?"

"Well, I don't know. Relics, maybe?"

His smirk broadened. "What kind of relics?"

"Old ones," Hermione breathed, still attempting to lean away from him, and still having her efforts deemed useless as he followed her movements, his face getting closer to hers with each passing second.

"How old?"

"Older than Dippet," she said quickly, and he chuckled, his hot breath fluttering over her face.

"Are you going to tell me anything worthwhile?" he asked, so close now that their noses were almost touching.

Hermione shook her head.

"That's too bad," he said, pulling away from her quickly and smoothing his robes down. "I'll see you tomorrow in Transfiguration."

He left, and it was a short while before Hermione's heart slowed to a more regular rate.

* * *

She stared at the ceiling, an indignant huff exiting her lungs as she glanced over the clock for what felt like the millionth time that night. Hermione had not slept a wink since she had laid her head down on the pillow over five hours ago. Instead, she had shifted from one position to another, and then to another, before deciding that really, she had been most comfortable in the first position anyway.

And still, she did not sleep.

She knew why, of course, though she was loathe to admit it to herself. Even letting the words form in her head would make it all seem far too real. Right now, it felt like she was trapped in some sort of fairytale, where the handsome prince and deadly villain had merged into the same person.

He was a murderer, that she was sure of.

However, he seemed quite keen to be very much the opposite of that.

But he was a liar, and that she was sure of too.

And then, there were the times he had kissed her. From what Harry had said from his experiences in the pensieve, Tom Riddle had never had a friend, let alone a _girl_friend.

_Not_ that she was his girlfriend of course.

But he had kissed her, and that went beyond the usual boundaries of friendship.

_And you enjoyed it._

She ignored the taunting voice in her head and rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow.

He seemed desperate to not become Lord Voldemort, so desperate that she was sure he couldn't be lying. She had seen him lie before, she knew what his style was. Now, there seemed only to be genuine panic.

Regardless of all that, he had already killed four people, perhaps more.

And yet he was the only one she could really talk to.

But she was being selfish, what did it matter who she could talk to – this was the course of history she was talking about! Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort were one and the same. There was no _way_ he'd be able to create a new body in time to start wreaking havoc on people. It had taken him thirteen years to find a way back before, and that was _with_ all the knowledge of the dark arts he had acquired over the years.

Tom Riddle was a _schoolboy_, he didn't have a hope in hell. He would have to settle for being the one person, just like everybody else.

And then, with a wide eyed gasp as she sat bolt upright in bed, it hit her.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Here we are guys! Another update! I'm getting back into it big style now, and I think I'm on the home straight. There will be weekly updates for the next few weeks for sure. I've also gotten a twitter for my writing, so you can check progress on there, of this fic and others. I have no followers at the moment, and I'm not usually an attention seeking brat but it would make me rather less foolish if you guys would follow. XD My username is Flaignhan, same as on here, and the link is on my profile. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks for your reviews from last time! =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"Wake up!" she hissed, shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

He squinted in the low light, trying to work out who exactly was interrupting his slumber at a quarter to six in the morning.

"What d'you want?" he mumbled sleepily, resting back on his elbows. "How did you get in here?"

"Never mind that," Hermione waved her wand at the dark velvet curtains surrounding Tom's bed, casting a silencing charm upon them so they could talk without fear of being overheard. "I figured it out!"

"Figured _what _out?"

"What we were talking about earlier! About you being two different people! I've worked out how we can do it!"

Suddenly Tom was wide awake. He was sitting up straight, his eyes wide and attentive while he waited for Hermione to elaborate further, his front teeth nervously (though Hermione thought she would never live to see the day) chewing on his bottom lip.

She explained her idea in a flurry of garbled words and hand gestures, while Tom listened intently, taking in everything she was saying and trying to make sense of it. When she finished, he stared at her, the silence pressing in on the pair of them from all sides.

Hermione's fingers had become gradually more and more tangled in his bedspread as she had explained her idea to him, and now she had her eyes focused on the mess while she waited for his reply.

"That's..." it seemed that for once, Tom was lost for words.

"D'you think it'll work?"

"It'll have to. I'll make it work."

"We can't do it right _now_ though," Hermione impressed upon him. "It was most definitely _you_ that worked in Borgin and Burke's, _not_ Lord Voldemort."

Tom nodded. "Yes, yes of course."

"You'll have to be patient."

"And then once it's done?"

"Once it's done, I guess you go away to somewhere people won't recognise you."

"On my own?"

Hermione avoided his eye.

"You need to stay away from people who _will_ know the real you. We're both outcasts, let's just...be outcasts together."

She laughed softly. "I don't know..."

"What don't you know? Haven't I made it clear how I feel?"

Hermione's fingers became even more tangled in the bedspread at his words, and her eyes stayed determinedly away from his.

"If it works..." she began slowly. "If it looks like it's going to turn out exactly the way we plan it, if you still feel the same when the time comes then...yes, I suppose we can be outcasts together."

He didn't say anything, he simply kissed her, and her hand immediately found its way out of the twisted bed covers and into his sleep-ruffled hair as he pushed her gently back onto the mattress, his lips never leaving hers.

* * *

"Oh very good," Dumbledore lowered his wand, smiling, and Hermione exhaled, her defences slackening. Her mind was tired after such a fierce attempt to gain access to her thoughts, but she had succeeded in protecting them three times in a row, each time Dumbledore increasing his efforts.

"D'you think I've got it then?" Hermione asked hopefully, relaxing in the squashy armchair opposite Dumbledore.

"I couldn't find a way in," Dumbledore replied slowly, pausing briefly before he continued, "but I wouldn't claim to be the most talented Legilimens on the planet. And there are certain people who manage to get what they want without resorting to magic, once they've learned the art, I daresay you will have a much tougher time."

"Are you talking about Tom?" Hermione asked, tracing circles on the arm of her chair, eyes not meeting Dumbledore's.

"He is a gifted young man...as you well know."

Hermione said nothing.

"Did you speak to him about his career plans?"

She nodded, but chose not to fill the Deputy Headmaster in on the exact details of the solution she and Tom had agreed upon.

"Do you feel better about things now?" he asked, a hint of regret evident in his tone, as though he knew exactly what was coming for the wizarding world.

"Things will go as they did," she said quietly, still watching her fingers move over the patterned upholstery.

"Then that is the best you can hope for," Dumbledore told her, in what she believed was supposed to be a reassuring tone, but for once, the fixer of all things did not manage to fill her with hope, or lift her heavy heart. His concern was evident, and the general rule she had discovered in all her years at Hogwarts, was that if Dumbledore was concerned, then you'd best run as fast and as far as you can.

"It just seems unfair," she said eventually, meeting his eyes at last, "that I have to live through it again. That I have to stand back while things happen that should _never_ have happened."

"You will find joy in the little things," Dumbledore assured her. "And you'll make do with what you're given, which is all one ever can do. Of course it's unfair that all of this should land on the shoulders of one so young, especially when you've clearly been through so much already, but life _isn't_ fair. It never _has_ been fair and it never _will_ be fair, but you will be a stronger person for your experiences, and one day, you'll be able to rejoin your friends. Look forward to it, try not to dwell on the bad."

"I'll be about _seventy_ when I next see them," she said with a sigh. "And they'll be eighteen. I'm not sure I'd even _want_ them to see me at that age. I'd be old enough to be their _grandmother_."

Dumbledore smiled good naturedly. "Hermione, coming from a man who is edging towards that milestone himself, trust me, you're only as young as you feel."

His blue eyes twinkled mischievously, bright as they had been when he was Hermione's age, no doubt, and she felt the ache in her chest dull just a little.

"The little things," he repeated. "Look for joy in the little things, and you'll find it."

Hermione nodded. "Thanks Professor," she said as she got to her feet. "Thanks for everything."

"Anytime, Hermione. You can come to me anytime."

_Not when I need you most I can't_, she thought sourly. _Not when _Harry _needs you most._

"Thanks," she said, pushing the embittered, sniping little voice out of her mind and forcing a smile in Dumbledore's direction. "Bye."

* * *

"I think we need to steer clear of each other publicly."

"Mmm," Hermione murmured in ignorant agreement as she slid her finger down the index of the book in front of her.

Impatient, Tom rapped her on the head with a roll of parchment and she looked up, eyebrows set in a scowl, fingers forcing their way through her bushy hair to try and neaten up any mess he may have caused.

"What?" she demanded, keeping her voice low so not as to attract the wrath of the librarian.

"I _said_ I think we need to steer clear of each other publicly," Tom repeated with a roll of his eyes. "Honestly, what's so important that you're not listening to me when I talk?" he pulled the book away from her, flipping it round so he could read the contents the right way up, before he too began scanning the index.

Hermione placed one finger on the yellowing page, and Tom snapped his eyes to the words below.

_Human Duplication_

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, as though he could barely believe she'd managed to find any mention of it at all, let alone in the _school_ library.

Hermione pulled the book back off of him, flicking to the appropriate page number and hurriedly reading a small paragraph before slamming the book shut and pushing it away from her with more force than was really necessary. She glared at it, arms folded across her chest, while Tom watched her bemusedly.

"Well?"

"_What_ is the point of featuring something in the index of a book if you're _just_ going to say you can't do it at all? What is the point of even _mentioning_ it in the whole book? It's wasting paper!"

"Well let's face it," Tom said, "we were never going to find anything of value in here. That book isn't even from the restricted section. Besides, I don't think we'd achieve that sort of thing without venturing into slightly...murkier waters."

Hermione knew he was right, but refrained from telling him so.

"But back to my point – you might end up getting wrapped up in this mess if people see us together. You might get hauled in for questioning when it all kicks off, they might think you're one of my...minions," he smiled briefly at his word choice, then waited for an answer from a still sulking Hermione.

"Yes, fine," she said. "We'll just have to find somewhere else to talk."

"You know my dormitory is always open, should you ever wish to visit...again."

Hermione ignored his comment. "Well, no time like the present, I'll just head back to my common room. See you whenever."

He smirked as she gathered up her things, placing them carefully into her battered satchel, before she turned to leave.

"The password is Serpents, by the way," he said teasingly. "But you already knew that."

She didn't respond.

* * *

Hermione's final exams crept up on her at an alarming rate, and between revision time tables, homework, and burying her head in books that she knew off by heart anyway, she barely had any time to see Tom. They communicated mostly by owl, almost ignoring each other in the corridors, but remaining polite to each other in lessons. They had decided that even more attention would be drawn to them should they downright blank each other, so careful courtesy had been deemed the most appropriate, and more importantly, low key, way to behave.

Tom had also done a very good job of stepping into the role of potential dark wizard. He was now being openly manipulative with Slughorn, and showing even more dislike for Dumbledore than ever before, yet not to the point where Dippet even considered describing him as anything other than the best student Hogwarts had ever seen.

Long before she was ready, (though she did freely admit to herself that she would never be one hundred per cent ready) she found herself sitting at a desk in the great hall amongst her fellow seventh years, with a Transfiguration theory exam paper sitting in front of her.

She dipped her quill into her inkpot, and with a shaky hand she wrote her name at the top, before taking a deep breath and turning over the first page. When she saw the question, she exhaled in mild relief, and began to write.

Afterwards, Tom caught up with her on the way to the library, where most of the seventh years were heading before their practical exam, which would start in a few hours' time.

"Well?"

"I think it went okay," she said, looking straight ahead, as though people would notice, and find it odd, should she make eye contact with him. "What about you?"

"Easy," he said, in a tone that was so genuine, Hermione wanted to hex him.

"Hermione, d'you think they'll test us on Switching Spells? I haven't done one for ages!" a panicked Joanne was pulling at the sleeve of her robe, front teeth buried in her bottom lip in anxiety.

"I've got no idea," Hermione replied, panic flooding through her at the thought of being tested on spells she had learned in previous years. Sixth year had been _two_ years ago for her, not just one, like everybody else. She wondered how much she had forgotten during her year on the run with Harry and Ron.

"Ohhh!" Joanne moaned. "I'll go and ask Lucy, she might know," and with that, she had disappeared amongst the crowd.

When Hermione looked back to her left, Tom had disappeared too.

* * *

The exams finished as quickly as they had come, and all that remained for Hermione to do was to worry about her results, and where she was going to live, once term had finished.

"I believe you have a job offer from the Ministry?" Dumbledore said, peering over his spectacles at her.

"Yes, but I can't very well live in the office," Hermione replied.

Dumbledore chuckled. "No no, I wasn't suggesting any such thing. It's just that once you have your first months' wages in hand, you should be able to find somewhere to rent. I believe you have a fairly healthy salary awaiting you, so it's just a matter of where you live for the first month."

"I suppose so," Hermione agreed.

"I shall talk to Professor Dippet. Tom is in a similar situation, and I see no reason why the pair of you are unable to stay in residence a little longer than the other students."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you Professor."

Dumbledore smiled. "You are, as ever, most welcome, Hermione."

* * *

"Dippet tells me you're staying too."

It was late, and they were sitting on the stone steps that led up to the astronomy tower, Disillusionment charms temporarily removed while they spoke. They may be fully qualified wizards, and they may have finished their N.E., but Apollion Pringle would not hesitate to give the pair of them a beating should he find them wandering around the castle after hours.

"Yeah," Hermione said. "Just for a month, then I'll be able to find somewhere of my own."

"You know we could probably find somewhere together...split the costs," Tom said slowly, brow creased slightly in uncertainty.

"But people would realise, so what would the point of us avoiding each other be?"

"Well we don't have rent a place in the middle of Diagon Alley, do we? We could get somewhere far out...have it registered in your name, and I can just be...mysterious."

Hermione laughed. "Mysterious? Is that what you call lodging at someone else's house?"

"No one will _know_, and that's the mystery."

"Right," Hermione said, holding back a smile.

A torn page from a newspaper was placed in front of her, and she took it. Circled in green ink in the corner was a small black and white photo of a cottage, looking rather squashed under a heavily thatched roof. There was a small garden, enclosed by a white picket fence, which was overgrown with shrubs and flowers. Underneath the picture were a few lines of text. It took Hermione only a second or two to read it.

"Very nice," she said, handing the clipping back to him.

"It's only twenty galleons a month, how much are your wages again?"

"Fifty five," Hermione replied.

"What d'you think I'll get as a _shop boy_? Five? Seven?"

"I think around _thirty_," Hermione corrected him. "You know shop workers aren't _so_ lowly that nobody cares if they're paid illegal sums for their work."

"I'd better not go down in history as the greatest shop boy Hogwarts has ever seen," he huffed.

"No, you'd have to have good customer service skills for that. And work in a reputable shop."

"True. How long does this shop work _last_ for?"

"Until after you've gotten something important."

"And how long until that happens?"

"I'll _tell _you when it's _time_."

Tom said nothing, and Hermione knew he was frustrated because for once, somebody knew something he couldn't find out in a book. It seemed he was also now resigned to the fact that she would not tell him anything more than what was absolutely necessary. It was obvious from his scowl that he didn't like being left in the dark, and his frustration was similar to that of Harry's, when the hunt for the Horcruxes seemed completely directionless. Tom's life, like Harry's had been planned out from the start, down routes which he did not want to go. He was left with no choice; he had to do what the world required of him, not what he wanted to do.

Unfortunately, what the world required was for Lord Voldemort to tear it to pieces.

And then it would require Harry to come along and clear up all the mess.

Dumbledore was right. Life wasn't fair.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** I realise it's been a bit more than a week - this is due mostly to the fact that the wireless connections in Italy and Edinburgh were nothing short of awful. Anyway, only about 5 chapters left now, and I'll get the next one up sometime next week. Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one too. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

Conjuring furniture was not a speciality of Hermione's.

She was competent enough to conjure what she needed, but trying to match it all up to be exactly what she wanted in her first house was proving to be quite a test of her skills. Tom had offered to help. She had politely declined.

It was only as darkness fell that she decided to call it a day, settling for upholstery on her sofa that didn't quite match with her armchairs, resigning herself to the fact that yes, the bed frame would always be a slightly darker shade than the wardrobe.

There had been some debate over the colour of the bedspread. Naturally, she had wanted red, and naturally, he had wanted green.

They chose blue.

"It feels empty," she said, settling onto the sofa, taking a much needed rest.

"Well we're not exactly brimming with personal belongings are we? You've only existed for a year and I'm...well. You know."

They had quite a hefty collection of second hand books between them. Though Hermione had saved as much of her wages as was humanly possible over the last month, she wasn't quite ready to face real life without a proper selection of reading material. She had relied on the library during her Hogwarts years, but now they were over she would need to build up her own supply.

On the day her Gringotts account had her first lot of wages land in it, Hermione had rushed down to Diagon Alley as soon as she finished for the evening, withdrew enough money for her half of the rent, as well as a few extra galleons, before heading straight over to Flourish and Blotts.

"I wish I could have some photos, or...anything," Hermione said, frowning at the empty mantelpiece.

"We've got a roof over our heads, we're out of the way, we'll be fine."

"So this is it?" Hermione asked. "We just hide out here for fifty years? What are you going to do when you quit the shop work?"

"I'm trying not to think about it."

Hermione sighed.

"I'll only end up drawing attention to myself by being brilliant," Tom said, only half joking. "I might as well just curl up into a ball and die."

"You can't. Horcruxes, remember?"

Tom shot her a filthy look, and they said no more on the matter.

* * *

It was there. Just sitting there on the dresser. Her hand hovered above it, wanting to pick it up. She had told him she wouldn't have any dark magic in her house (and after all, it was in her name, so _her_ house, even if he did pay half the rent) so it should be safe, shouldn't it?

She didn't want to ask him about it, it would raise his suspicions. No, it was best she was left alone to do it.

She didn't even know if it would work, she didn't know how the stone worked, whether it would bring back people _she'd_ lost or just those that had already been lost up to this precise moment in time.

Biting the bullet, Hermione picked up the ring, closed her eyes and turned it over three times.

"Hello."

Her eyes snapped open. "Remus."

He looked younger than she remembered, his face was fresh and there were fewer scars. His eyes twinkled merrily, even in this ghostly, pearlescent form. He smiled at her and sat down on the bed, hands on his knees, surveying her carefully.

"I can't tell you what you want to know," he said after a minute, in a tone that suggested that he knew she was aware of that already. "I died long before the end of it all, I never saw the outcome."

Hermione looked at the floor. "Yes, of course. I'm so sorry."

He waved her apologies away. "For what it's worth, and that may not be a lot, but I think you're doing the right thing."

"Really?"

"Funny how you accept things that don't add up when it appears to be the only option...don't you think? There never was much human in him...Tom's ten times the man he was, now he has you."

She shifted awkwardly on her chair. She wasn't quite ready enough for people to be tying her to Tom quite so definitely. She didn't argue though, she was quite sure that she would be spending the foreseeable future with Tom, in their cottage in the middle of nowhere, trying to hide the fact that really, he didn't want to be a mass-murdering monster.

"I'm sure it will be fine," he said reassuringly. "And I know Harry and Ron will be so relieved you're alive and well."

"I'll be in my seventies when I next see them. And for them, it might only be five minutes after I was eighteen. It's...it's too much."

"You could always take an ageing potion," Remus suggested with a shrug of his shoulders.

"A permanent one?"

"Well, I don't know. Two of the most talented students Hogwarts has ever had are going to be cooped up in a cottage for fifty years with not much to do. Why don't you _invent_ one?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but it was a few seconds before any noise came out. "I wouldn't know where to start!"

"Neither did Nicholas Flamel. And neither did Lord Voldemort, when he tried to resurrect himself, but he got there eventually, didn't he?"

Hermione wasn't sure she approved of the second analogy too much, though the point still stood. Perhaps Tom would be glad to have a project – the shop work was so dull, and it wasn't like he had never been interested in life-lengthening solutions.

"So," she said awkwardly, snapping out of her train of thought, "what's it like where you are? I mean, where _are_ you?"

He chuckled. "I'm perfectly fine – everyone is. They all send their love...and luck."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure that having luck sent to her from people who had all been forced to an early grave was necessarily beneficial, but she appreciated the sentiment all the same.

"Make him hide it soon," he said, gesturing to the ring. "It'll only tempt you if it sits there."

"I know where he hides it though, it's not much of a hiding place," she argued.

"Yes, but if you go and get it, Dumbledore _can't_. Don't go and change history now, not after you and Tom have sacrificed so much to keep it as it was."

"I wish I _didn't_ have to keep it as it was. So he doesn't want to be Lord Voldemort, let's just leave it at that!"

"Something worse would happen, I'm sure of it," he replied firmly, leaving no room for argument.

"Yes I suppose you're right," Hermione sighed.

Remus smiled and stood up, patting her on the shoulder, though she couldn't feel a thing. "You'll be fine. Let go of the ring though, and don't use it again."

She nodded. "Tell everyone..."

He waited patiently while she tried to put into words how she felt, but what could you say to the dozens of people who had lost their lives in a war that she was ensuring would happen?

"Tell them I miss them," she finished, unsatisfied with such a generic expression.

Remus nodded, his hand leaving her shoulder, and, after taking one more look at her former professor, she put the ring down.

* * *

She was serving up dinner when he returned, a little later than usual.

"Guess what I've got."

Hermione turned her attention away from her task to see him dangling a gold locket in front of her face. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Great!" she said, feigning enthusiasm.

"Do you even_ know_ what it is?" Tom asked sceptically.

"Of _course_ I know what it is!" Hermione snapped. "It doesn't mean I have to like it, does it? That thing almost killed my best friend, for your information."

Tom looked between the locket and Hermione as though he was impressed, and she huffed, turning back to the dinner plates. With a wave of her wand they floated over to the kitchen table, and Tom slipped the locket into his trouser pocket, taking his seat at the table.

"It was my mother's."

"I know."

"You know Burke only gave her – "

"_Yes_," Hermione said impatiently. "Can we change the subject?"

"Is this the treasure you were talking about?"

Hermione set her fork down before she had even managed to take her first bite and sighed.

"I just want to know," Tom said defensively, placing his fork on the edge of his plate, too.

"There's something else. How d'you feel about a project?" she asked.

Tom's eyebrows rose, and he abandoned the subject of treasure immediately. "What kind of project?"

"Well...this might sound vain, but I just want my old life back really, but I don't want to be an old woman the next time I see my friends."

"You want the elixir of life?"

"Well no," Hermione said, frowning a little, "I don't want eternal life...I just want to make it hang around a bit until I'm ready."

Tom sniggered. "Yes, okay, that sounds _incredibly _vain. But I do suppose you only want what _every_ woman wants."

"Excuse _me_," Hermione said heatedly, "You tell me who was the last woman to be sent fifty years back in time and was then told the only way to get back was to _live_ through it! I want what's rightfully mine! My own life, in my own time, with my own friends, and I don't want to be trying to sort out the history of the world because _somebody_ doesn't want to be a mass murderer anymore!"

"Oh how very selfish of me, I do apologise. Would it make you feel better if I went out on a murderous rampage?"

Hermione sighed. "Fifty years Tom, fifty years, _here_. Just you and me, no one else, because it's too risky. No one else, because I don't _have_ anyone else."

"So this cure for ageing," he began.

"Not a _cure_," Hermione stressed, "I'm quite happy to age along with my friends once I'm back in my own time, it's just a temporary measure. I don't want to be nineteen my whole life."

"Oh I don't know, that doesn't sound like such a bad fate to me."

Hermione gave him a withering look and finished eating her food.

* * *

The fire crackled merrily, though the mood in the room was far from merry. Tom and Hermione were surrounded by stacks of leather bound books, all in varying degrees of disrepair. Tom exhaled loudly, setting the final book down.

"Nothing."

"We need more books," Hermione said determinedly, as she began going through the pile next to her again.

Tom grabbed her wrist to stop her. "You won't find anything in there. We'll just have to...start with a basic ageing potion and...experiment."

"Experiment?" she raised one of her eyebrows. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Well, we won't experiment on ourselves, obviously. But we're good, we can figure this out. If anyone can, we can – no doubt about it."

Hermione found it hard to share his enthusiasm and optimism. In truth, she was finding it hard to get excited about anything these days; her job was repetitive, so was her home life – even weekends weren't fun. Tom had to work on Saturdays so she was in on her own all day, nobody to talk to, and the long, grey prospect of fifty years staying hidden lying ahead of her.

When she had been at school, she had had her studies to distract her from the reality of her situation. She could almost pretend she was living the life she wanted to, but now she was being forced to stay out of sight, to not fulfil her potential. If Hermione Mercer ever did anything worthwhile, they'd be sure to learn about it at school, and the secret would be out.

The worst part was that she enjoyed torturing herself. Fifty years was over two and a half lifetimes for her, or, six hundred months, or, two thousand, six hundred weeks, or, eighteen thousand, two hundred days. She hadn't dared to venture into hours, minutes or seconds yet. That would be dangerous and depressing territory for sure. Not that days, weeks, months and years wasn't, of course, but once you're getting on for twenty thousand of anything, it's best to quit while you're still sane.

Tom put an arm around her, pulling her in and kissing the top of her head. Despite all of her Occlumency training, despite all of her successful sessions with Dumbledore, Tom always knew what was going through her mind. And the worst part was, he wasn't even using Legilimency, he could just _tell_. She hated being so obvious, especially to him, who was probably the most _un_-obvious person she had ever met.

"Let's call it a night," he said, getting to his feet and taking her by the wrist, hauling her up. "We can carry on tomorrow."

Hermione nodded, and allowed him to lead her upstairs to bed.

* * *

The cottage soon became an organised mess of tatty books, cauldrons, potions ingredients and scraps of parchment with notes scrawled on them. At first, Hermione had attempted to clear everything away each night, but soon found she was back to work as soon as she got in from her day at the Ministry. Soon the tools for her age-prevention quest became part of the furniture, as much as the table at which they sat each night, heads bowed over text books, squinting to read the tiny print.

Tom had got hold of some morally questionable books (she didn't ask _how_) and it was with a bitter taste in her mouth that Hermione opened them, looking for anything that could be of use. When they had proved to be useless, Hermione found herself almost pleased, while Tom seemed to take it personally that not even dark magic would provide an easy route. Yes, he could split his soul, but holding back the years? No. They were resigned to figuring it out the hard way, mixing variations on the usual ageing potion, none of which seemed to be of much use.

"It's not going to happen straight away," Tom told her, after a huff of impatience had issued from her one Sunday afternoon. "I don't even want to think about how long it took Nicholas Flamel to create the elixir of life. This could take _years_."

"At least it'll keep us busy I suppose," Hermione sighed. She closed the book she had been studying and pushed it away from her. "Let's go out."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Sounds good," Tom agreed, and he too closed his book. "Let's get out of here."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Here we are! Chapter 15! I got some amazing reviews for the last chapter that made me dance around my house. Just perfect, thank you so much. And good news - after about 6 different attempts, I've finally worked out how I wanted to write the ending, and it's getting there! Huzzah! Hope you enjoy this chapter, there's a particular section that I love, personally, and I hope you love it too. Enjoy! =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"_Merlin_ she's awful," Tom dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table loudly, took off his cloak and vanished it with a quick wave of his wand.

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"Hepzibah _Smith_," Tom said, with a great deal of distaste. "She's just...well," he sat down heavily on a chair and rested his head in his hands. "She keeps eyeing me up like I'm a piece of meat, it's _horrible_."

Hermione was stirring the stew on the stove slowly, trying her hardest to remain cool. She had not yet told him that he would have to kill her, and then plant a false memory in her House Elf's mind. She just couldn't quite bring herself to give the command, she would feel responsible for it, and actually, there were no two ways about it, she would be. Tom wouldn't even consider killing her, not without Hermione's encouragement.

"Burke thinks she's got something wonderful though," Tom continued, scanning the front page of the _Evening Prophet_, pulling a face of disinterest and turning over to move on to another story. "She's got a lot of trinkets, and some of them are definitely worth a few galleons, but I'm yet to see anything breathtaking."

"You will," Hermione said, and the words came out before she could stop herself. She kept her gaze on the simmering stew in front of her, but the sound of newspaper page stopping after it had only been half turned was unmistakeable.

"Do you ever stop to think that it's a little disconcerting from my point of view that you know every detail about my life?"

Hermione said nothing.

"What has she got?"

"Something special."

"Such as?"

"You'll find out."

"Oh _come on_," Tom said, his chair scraping against the tiled floor as he slid back and got to his feet. The next moment he was by her side at the stove, casting a shadow over the saucepan. "You can't just throw out comments like that and then tell me you can't say any more."

"You're going to have to do something terrible," Hermione said quietly, and her hand trembled as she continued to stir, still not looking at him. "And somebody else is going to take the blame. What do you know about planting memories?"

"What?"

"Planting memories. So that somebody thinks they've done something they haven't?"

"Well, I'd never really considered it. It does sound like a handy little trick to have though," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaning against the counter. "I suppose you'd have to create the memory in your _own_ mind, from the other person's perspective of course - and you'd have to make it utterly perfect, no evidence of tampering, and then you'd extract it, put it in a vial, and then implant it into their head. Maybe lace it with feelings of guilt, or pride, depending on the individual, but yes, I imagine it's possible."

"You should get practising."

"Why?"

"Binky is going to poison Hepzibah Smith."

Tom's mouth formed a small 'o' shape.

"And you're going to take Helga Hufflepuff's cup," she continued. She didn't want to look up at him, didn't want to see the flash of excitement in his eyes, nor the longing for such a treasured piece of history.

"And then I quit my job?"

"And then you quit your job," she confirmed, ladling the stew into bowls, tutting when a good portion of it slopped over the sides and onto the counter.

"I'm almost looking forward to it."

Hermione ignored him.

* * *

He placed it on the table carefully, before standing back to marvel at it. Hermione couldn't help but glare at it. After all she had been through with Harry and Ron, after she had _broken into Gringotts_ to get ahold of the ancient golden cup that was now sitting on her kitchen table, here she was, creating all the problems in the first place. Here she was, seeing to it that she and her friends had a miserable time, the weight of the world on their shoulders. Here she was, ensuring that Hepzibah Smith was murdered, over a silly little cup.

Yes, it was a beautiful cup, and yes, had the circumstances been different she would have been giddy with excitement to be able to see it, touch it in real life. The trouble was, all these ancient artefacts that Tom was almost frothing at the mouth with excitement over held such terrible memories for her that she didn't want anything to do with them at all.

"So I guess it's time now?" he asked. "To get the ball rolling?"

Hermione nodded.

"I might be gone for a long time."

"I know."

"Will you be all right paying the rent?"

She nodded.

"Right," he said, "I guess tomorrow is as good a time as any to get going."

"Tomorrow?" her voice came out in a much more panicked tone than she had intended, and he almost smiled.

"I'd rather get it all over and done with," he said. "And the sooner it's done the sooner I can find some sort of work so I can start paying the rent again."

Hermione's shoulders drooped and she let out a small sigh.

* * *

Hermione whacked the alarm clock with a considerable amount of force, and it stopped ringing. She groaned into her pillow, not quite ready to face another day of repetitive tasks, only to come home to an empty house, which would most likely stay that way for some time. For the first time, she realised how much she needed Tom. She had spent so much time missing all the people she'd left behind in her own time that she hadn't realised that suddenly, her entire world was built around him.

She touched his arm gently and his eyes flicked open.

"Do you really have to go today?"

"The sooner I start, the sooner I'll be finished. If we start putting it off then we'll probably end up putting it off forever."

She sighed, knowing he was right. Her eyes met his. "I'll miss you."

He smirked, as she always knew he would. He pulled her close and kissed her gently.

"Send a message, tell them you're ill. Maybe I'll go away tomorrow instead. One day won't make much difference."

Hermione had never feigned an illness in her life. In fact, the only times she had ever missed lessons at Hogwarts were in circumstances beyond her control - cat face, petrified, timeturner mishap, bubotuber pus. Never, not once had she ever come up with a lame excuse about a little bit of a sniffle, or an excruciating headache. Whenever she had been ill, she had battled on with little regard for her own well being.

And it was with that clean record that she justified to herself that she _could_ pretend she was ill, and she _could_ stay at home with Tom all day. She summoned some parchment, ink and a quill, and scrawled a quick note to her boss. It disappeared with a loud _crack_ when she jabbed it with her wand and Tom sat up, looking at the space on her lap where the note had been.

"How did you do that?"

Hermione's eyes widened slightly. "Never mind."

She kissed him, and all questions about spells that were yet to be invented remained unasked as they became tangled up in each other, determined to forget about the life that neither of them had ever chosen.

* * *

She stayed late at the office.

She ate alone, in the Leaky Cauldron, just to be around people.

She read a lot.

And then she read a lot more.

She went to bed early each night.

She woke up alone and did it all again.

Eventually she was promoted, and staying even later at the office was an option. The work was more complex, and gave her brain something to focus on, other than how many months it had been since she had last seen him in the flesh.

She made a promise to herself, not to ever complain about the fifty years ahead ever again once he returned. Being without him threw into sharp relief just how much her sanity depended on having him around, how quickly the time passed in the evenings when they sat in front of the fire, trying to think of every possible avenue they could go down to hold up their ageing until Hermione was good and ready to get older.

Sometimes she made tea for two, out of habit, and when she noticed, her stomach contracted uncomfortably and she had to look away.

Sometimes it felt as though he had died, and she was just in denial. This was, of course, a strong possibility, but she hadn't heard any news, and no news was supposed to be good news, wasn't it?

Sometimes it felt as though he had never existed at all, that maybe, she had never been sent back in time at all, and her 'fake' life was slowly crumbling around her, Tom being the first to disappear.

Then she'd stub her toe on the door frame because she wasn't watching where she was going, and remember that it was all very painfully real indeed.

Sometimes, and stomach acid would rise in her throat at these times, she wondered if he had gone ahead and done it on his own. She wondered if he considered world domination to be better than a clear conscience and fifty years of hiding out in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

At times like that, she had to focus on his last words to her, but it was getting more and more difficult to remember the sound of his voice.

_"I'll be back before you know it, I promise."_

At times like that, she tried to remember when he whispered in her ear in the great hall.

_"Patience and trust, Hermione, patience and trust."_

The fact that he had made it to the great hall at all proved that he had returned to her eventually, proved that he had kept his promise, and proved, though she wasn't keen on this bit, that she just had to wait it out patiently.

The first year passed, and to mark the occasion, she drank a bottle of wine on the sofa, eventually falling asleep in her work clothes and waking up late for work the next day with a dreadful hangover.

The second year passed in much the same manner, as did the third.

And fourth.

She often complained to herself that it wasn't fair.

It was easy to be selfish when you were lonely.

* * *

It was raining heavily.

Hermione was lounged on the sofa, fire crackling in the hearth, a book open on her lap, though she wasn't reading it. The sound of the rain hammering against the windows was comforting when she was inside with a nice warm fire and a bar of Honeyduke's best.

A crack of lightening lit up the sky momentarily, and the rumble of thunder followed soon after. Hermione frowned, not sure she was comfortable being surrounded by so many tall trees when the lightening was a little too close for comfort.

She took a sip of her tea and let her attention fall back onto the book in front of her, her tired eyes taking in the words while her brain trundled along, committing the information to memory. She wondered whether she would ever run out of brain space, if one day her head would just turn around and say 'no, Hermione, no more, there's quite enough in here already'. She supposed she still had a fair way to go before reaching that point, if she _ever_ reached that point. Dumbledore had only got sharper, and more intelligent as time had gone on, still learning even after he'd passed the century mark. She had a long way to go yet, so she put the worry from her mind.

There was a loud _creak_, and she jumped, grabbing her wand from the coffee table and getting to her feet quickly, her book dropping to the floor with a _thud_. She ran through hexes and defensive spells in her mind, ready for whatever the owner of those slow, clunking footsteps was going to throw at her.

"Show yourself!" her voice shook, though her wand was steady in her hand.

He appeared in the doorway, and lowered the hood of his black cloak, which was dripping wet.

Her jaw dropped, along with her wand as she crossed the room in four large strides and threw her arms around him. He was soaked through, and her clothes soon became wet as he held her tightly in his arms, her face buried into his damp neck. He still smelled the same.

They said nothing. It wasn't the time for words. They had nearly fifty years for words.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** New chapter! And the big news is that this fic has passed the 300 review mark! I'm SO thrilled and it's all down to you guys so _thank you_. I hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think! =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

It took a while for Hermione to get used to having Tom back. She would often jump when he broke the silence, not used to any noise in the house, other than that which she was making. She would often have to take another cup out of the cupboard after she had already poured her own tea, then turned round to see him sitting at the kitchen table expectantly, eyeing her cup with a raised eyebrow.

She had to get used to sharing the duvet again. That was a tough one.

Soon enough, she slipped back into the routine she had missed so dearly, and became used to the sound of his voice being more than a distant memory. She became used to waking up with his arm around her, and to him wrestling a book out of her hands when it reached the early hours of the morning and was most definitely time for bed.

Instead of skipping breakfast each morning and heading straight to work, she sat down and had a proper breakfast with Tom, because now she didn't have to stare at the kitchen wall, and now she had somebody to discuss the news with.

She pulled a face and put the newspaper down on the kitchen table, before pushing her remaining slice of toast away from her with a grimace.

"Did it really need to be that graphic?" she asked.

Tom picked up the paper, quickly taking in the headline – _ARCTURUS BLACK DIES IN MANTICORE ATTACK_ – and scanned article. "It seems so."

"The funeral's on Wednesday, are you going?"

Tom shook his head. "No he wouldn't have wanted me to...although what would irritate him more than a halfblood showing up at his funeral?"

"Maybe you could take some muggles with you, really hammer the point home."

"Hermione, a man's _died_, there's a line of good taste," Tom smirked nonetheless. "What in the name of Merlin was a manticore doing in North London, though?" he didn't wait for an answer, just drained the rest of his tea and turned the page. "Oh dear, someone's gone and splinched themselves."

"Is that _really_ newsworthy?" Hermione asked, picking at the edges of her toast, her appetite almost returning.

"You don't want to know what he left behind," Tom replied, his lips pressed together to hide his smirk.

Hermione tutted and threw her toast in the bin, giving breakfast up as a lost cause.

* * *

She frowned, and read through the list again.

It wasn't that she _needed_ the books, but she'd like to have the set, just because they felt like home. They'd guided her through six years of education in her own time, and now, two months before they were due to be released, they were nowhere to be seen on the future publications list that the manager of Flourish and Blott's had let her look over.

The list carried right over to the new year, and yet there was no mention of them at all. She asked Mr Blott, and he had heard nothing of them either.

Hermione bit her lip, paid for her books, and apparated home.

"We've got a project," she said breathlessly, dumping her new books on the table and sitting down opposite Tom.

"What about the ageing potion?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Leave that for now, we need to get writing."

"Writing? Writing what?"

"I've found you a job. Sort of. And actually, it's going to need both of us to get it done on time. We're going to have to work fast. _Very_ fast."

"What are we writing?" Tom repeated, slowly and firmly.

"_The Standard Book of Spells_, grades one to seven. Textbooks. School textbooks. I used them when I was at Hogwarts, and they're supposed to be released in a couple of months but they're not on Flourish and Blott's list!"

Tom eyed her suspiciously. "How do you know they're not already written, and the publishers are just keeping it a secret?"

"Excuse me," Hermione said, "but what kind of publishers would want to keep secret the fact that they're releasing a set of spell books? Surely they'd be shouting about it at the tops of their voices? Surely there'd be adverts in the _Prophet_, and surely Mr Blott would know _something_, but there's nothing! No trace whatsoever!"

"You're _sure_?"

"_Yes!_" Hermione said, leaning forward to emphasise her point. "I know that this is what we do. Fifty years is a long time, _this_ is our work. We don't waste ourselves, we teach from a distance! We'll be all set! I was still using them in my time, we'll just have to update them every so often!"

"That _does_ sound pretty good," Tom said, thoughtfully. "And between the two of us we can probably get them done on time...how well do you know the text?"

"By heart," Hermione said. "But I imagine what you write is what I remember, and what I write is what I remember. I could _probably_ write a list of the chapters, and what's in them to get us started, and once we've done that we're good to go."

"Thank Merlin," Tom said, smiling, "I'm sick of bloody ageing potions."

* * *

She sat hunched over her parchment, scribbling out sentences, the silence broken only by the gentle crackling of the fire and the scratching of her quill. She didn't look up until she reached the end of her roll of parchment, and only then it was a quick glance at the clock before she flattened her new piece of parchment out in front of her, numbering it at the top and then continuing her sentence.

"It's late."

She looked up momentarily to see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, then returned her attention back to her work. She hated how cool he was about this. He was the picture of perfection, smooth and calm as usual, while she was nursing dark circles under her eyes - a result of several extremely late nights and early mornings. She was getting jumpy, was overworked from trying to hold down her job at the Ministry and do her fair share of the writing for seven different textbooks.

"You can leave that until tomorrow."

"The deadline is _five weeks_ away! We're nowhere _near_ finished! It's still got to be sent to the publishers, they need to approve it, they need to _print_ it! There's just not enough time!"

She scowled. His lack of response obviously meant he was smirking at her. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of her seeing it. She was going to continue working and –

"Come on," he pulled her up from her chair by the arm, vanished her quill, ink and parchment with a wave of his wand, and, ignoring her protests, chivvied her up the stairs and into bed, where she promptly fell asleep.

When she awoke it was late. Far too late. She looked at the clock on her bedside table and saw that it was one o'clock in the afternoon. She gasped and jumped out of bed, running down the stairs. She found Tom in the lounge, sitting at the desk, writing in that neat scripted style that always made her heart flare a little with jealousy.

"Why didn't you wake me up? I'm late for work!"

He didn't bother turning around, just continued writing. "I sent a message to your office, I told them you were ill. And don't you feel much better now you've had a good sleep?"

"But the _book!_"

"Will be finished on time," Tom said calmly. "If it was released in five weeks time, then it _will_ be released in five weeks time. We're getting there, just stop stressing over it," he finished his sentence with a flourish and set his quill down, inspecting his parchment.

"There," he said, rolling it up once he was satisfied. "That's _Grade Five_ finished, now onto _Grade Six_. Go and have a bath or something, it'll do you the world of good."

Hermione frowned. "Are you saying I smell?"

"No, I'm saying you're a girl. Girls like baths. Go."

Hermione huffed, but followed orders. The idea of a bath _was_ an appealing one, and it was with a happy sigh that she slid into the hot, but not scorching, water.

* * *

She wondered if quitting was the right thing to do. Would it raise suspicions, if she was never seen, nor heard from again? Would Dumbledore look for her? Would he think that Lord Voldemort had captured her and extracted information about the future from her? Would he even care?

Of course he would, he was Dumbledore.

She had said she was moving to a different country. They could very well move to a different country, but as bare and lifeless as the cottage had been when they first moved in, Hermione had grown to love it. Over the years it had been filled with books and trinkets and all sorts of things until finally, it was the only place she could actually call home. She didn't _want_ to leave, and there was no reason to, not really.

Her boss wouldn't really check to make sure she'd left the country, would he?

No. No he wouldn't. He wasn't suspicious of her. He had wished her luck, said goodbye, and got on with his life. She was no longer a concern of his.

She sighed, wishing she was less paranoid.

Unfortunately, living your life in hiding with a supposed (future) mass murderer went hand in hand with paranoia, and she had no choice but to force it from her mind and hope for the best.

"You know we could probably _buy_ a house with this," Tom said when she arrived home. He was counting fat gold galleons, placing them in neat stacks of ten. The kitchen table was piled high with gold, and Hermione's eyes bulged in their sockets at the sight of it.

"How much is there?" Hermione breathed, sitting down opposite him.

"Eight hundred and something," Tom said.

Hermione's jaw dropped.

"It's got to last us all year though," he said warningly. "We get the September windfall when everyone's buying their school things, but probably nothing again until next year."

Hermione nodded. She had never seen so much money in her entire life, and was finding it difficult to tear her eyes away from it.

"Why have you got it all in here?" she asked. "Why not Gringotts?"

"I wanted to count it before I put it in Gringotts," he told her. "I'm not just going to take Frobisher's word that there are eight hundred and seventy-two galleons here. He might be trying to rip us off. I'll count it and take it there in the morning."

"Where are you putting it overnight?" she asked.

"I'll put it all into a bag and shrink it," he told her. "And no, I won't lose it, don't worry."

"Right. Well, I'll get started on dinner shall I?"

* * *

One night, she awoke to find him gone.

The duvet on his side had been thrown back, presumably in a hurry, and his dressing gown wasn't hanging on the back of the door.

It was with cautious concern that Hermione pulled on her own dressing gown, slid her feet into her slippers, and padded downstairs, where she found him in the lounge, bent over a bubbling cauldron, frowning as he looked between a scribbled page of notes, while stirring the potion he was busy brewing.

"What is it?"

He shushed her, and she scowled.

Finally, he pulled the ladle out, put the lid on the cauldron and allowed her to take up some of his attention.

"What is it?" she repeated, sitting down next to him, lifting the lid of the cauldron curiously to peer in and study its contents.

"I think I've cracked it," he said, his eyes wide with sleep deprivation and concentration. "The ageing potion. I pulled apart the theory behind the Impediment Jinx, re-routed it a bit, applied the effects to the potion and...well...I think this is it. I've gone over the theory six times and it's completely sound."

"The _Impediment_ Jinx?" Hermione said in surprise. "Really?"

"Well look at it logically," Tom explained quickly, lifting the lid to give the potion another stir. "The Impediment Jinx _stops things temporarily._ That's exactly what we want! It's been so obvious all along that I feel like _kicking_ myself. I can't believe I didn't see it before. And if this _works_, you could probably come up with a general theory for mixing spells and potions for almost _any_ outcome!"

Hermione picked up the messy page of notes that Tom had been studying when she found him and ran her eyes over it, her brain suddenly alert as she processed this information. She could find no fault with the theory, but she wasn't so keen on testing it out in a more practical manner.

Tom looked over and saw the concerned expression on her face.

"I figured we could try it on a small animal, maybe a kitten, something that grows fast so we'll be able to tell if it's not ageing really easily."

Hermione gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

"What?"

"You can't experiment on a _kitten_!" Hermione told him.

"Why not?"

Hermione's jaw dropped and she shook her head in disbelief. "Because it's a _kitten_!"

"I'm already aware that a kitten is, in fact, a kitten," Tom said coolly, "but you are yet to tell me _why_ I can't test a perfectly safe potion on it."

"How do you know it's perfectly safe?"

"There's nothing poisonous or dangerous in it. It's actually relatively simple, but it might need a little altering, just to get it perfect."

"You're not testing on a kitten," Hermione said firmly. "You're not."

"So, I come up with a way to stop you ageing, and this is the thanks I get..." Tom murmured.

* * *

"So what have you got against frogs then?"

"Nothing, why?"

"Well, you had no qualms about me testing on a frog, but a kitten? No, definitely not, out of the question and I was a demon for even suggesting it."

"Yes but kittens are so..."

"If your next word is cute, I'm going to swap your potion for Draught of Living Death."

Hermione gave him a look, and he let his eyes fall on his goblet of potion.

"On three?" he asked.

Hermione nodded.

"One, two, three."

They downed their potion simultaneously. Hermione had been prepared for some awful sort of flavour, perhaps even as bad as the Polyjuice Potion had been in her second year, but this wasn't too bad at all, and considering she had to take it daily, that was a very happy bonus. It tasted like a milkshake, only not any flavour she could definitively put her finger on. It tasted almost like she imagined a sweet shop would, from the smell that hit you as soon as you walked in. There was also a hint of something organic and flowery about it, something that reminded her of playing on roundabouts and swings as a child over the park.

It tasted of being_ young_.

"Well," said Tom, wiping his mouth clear of any potion residue with his thumb. He looked down into his empty goblet, then touched it against Hermione's. "To many years of youthfulness."

"Aren't we supposed to make a toast _before_ we drink it?" Hermione asked.

"Not if you're trying a new potion for the first time. I think all energy needs to be focussed on absolutely not dying."

Hermione froze. "Was that a possibility then?"

"Well, maybe not _dying_, but you know, something that might not have affected frogs could have affected us."

"Right," Hermione said, setting her goblet down. She suddenly felt a little sick, and her hand immediately went to her stomach, as though it needed support.

"It's all in your head," Tom told her, watching her behaviour. "It's fine. I'm fine, you're fine, and we're going to be young forever."

Hermione's mistake was meeting his eyes when he said this, and she found herself accepting whatever he said without question.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Here we are, another update! Thank you so very much for all the fantastic reviews, it really does make my day when I read them. Hope you all enjoy this chapter! =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

She still hadn't been born.

She was now measuring time in odd ways. Simply using the years wasn't working for her. It made it all seem far too long.

Tom, of course, found this amusing. She could see it whenever she mentioned that there was only five years and so many months and so many days before she was born. He would smile, as though he was genuinely interested, but she knew that in his head he was laughing at her.

The truth was, she was dealing with the hiding away for decades _thing_ in her own way. And it was working for her. That was all that mattered. It seemed like her birth would be a massive milestone for them to pass. Then it would only be another eighteen years. They'd be well past the half way mark. They were home running once she was born. She could even pass the time by trying to remember what she was doing each day.

She even wondered if a party was in order on the day she got her Hogwarts letter.

Not that anyone would be invited, but they could open a bottle of wine and drink to her education.

It was thoughts like this that made her head spin. Somewhere, in her past, on the day she got her Hogwarts letter, her older self was drinking to her own education. They were co-existing, only a couple of hundred miles from each other.

She shook her head, ignoring the madness of it all (it was all she could do) and resumed counting down to her birthday.

* * *

Eventually she was born.

They drank some wine, they had a nice dinner, and eventually, they went to bed.

She didn't know why, but she expected to feel different, once she actually existed. Once Hermione Granger was a proper person, she had expected to feel validated, like she was a real person living in the real world.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to feel anything remotely connected with reality in the little wooded corner of the universe they had claimed as their own. She couldn't remember the last time she had had a proper conversation with somebody who wasn't Tom.

"Who else could you possibly ever need to talk to?" Tom asked. "I'm perfect. You don't need anyone else."

He was joking, but there was a hint of sincerity behind his words. She supposed it was true. She hadn't needed anybody else before now, and she supposed she could quite easily go on not needing anybody else for a good while.

Sometimes she wished she could get a proper job, with real people, but there was no need and jobs only brought on stress, for her, at least. Even when Tom had been away she hadn't interacted with any of her colleagues too much. Yes, she'd been out for the occasional birthday drink and yes she'd chat to them during her lunch break, but other than that she'd been rather determined to keep herself as distant as possible.

Of course, that was the price you paid when you were thrown back in time and discovered the wizard who did it suddenly didn't want to be an evil sorcerer anymore.

_Not_ that she was bitter of course.

* * *

Soon, Ron was born, as was Harry, and it seemed that the time passed more quickly, the older she got. She had given up caring what day of the week it was a long time ago. Occasionally she and Tom would update the text books with recent advances in magic but that never took up more than a few evenings around Easter time, just before the new editions were set to be released.

On the plus side, Hermione had gotten incredibly good at Wizard's Chess, and gobstones. She and Tom had also ventured into the muggle world to pick up some muggle games, because in all honesty, the wizarding world was rather lacking in ways to pass considerable amounts of time.

"I think it was Rubeus Hagrid, in the dungeon, with the acromantula," Tom said, looking up at Hermione over the adapted game of Cluedo they were playing.

She kicked him hard under the table and he yelped.

"Hagrid's a friend of mine."

Tom had the decency to look sheepish before suggesting that it had been Professor Merrythought, in the astronomy tower, with the Killing Curse.

One night, she refused to play any games.

She stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, glass of Firewhiskey held tightly in her hand, un-drunk. Once the clock ticked past midnight, she started to hear the whistles and bangs of fireworks, bursts of colour flooding in through the kitchen window, casting red and gold glows over her wan face.

He sat with her, their fingers laced together, her grip as hard as the solid stone walls of the room they were in. He didn't say a word, and nor did she. He drank his Firewhiskey, and refilled his glass with his wand, repeating the process every half hour or so until he decided that enough was enough.

Eventually he fell asleep, and when he awoke it was to find her head and shoulders sprawled over the kitchen table, her eyes closed, the dark circles beneath them far more obvious in the morning light.

An owl was waiting on the table too, newspaper held in its beak, leather pouch on its leg open expectantly. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of bronze knuts, and dropped them into the pouch. The newspaper was released, and fell onto the table heavily, the front page unfurling in front of him.

_HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED, DEAD._

_Harry Potter survives killing curse. Bodies of James and Lily Potter recovered from the scene._

He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but she awoke, eyelids fluttering open, mouth stretched wide in a yawn. She took one glance at the front page, then looked at him.

"It's far from over," she said.

"Oh joy."

She got up and stretched, then left the kitchen.

* * *

"You were actually quite annoying."

Hermione gave him a sharp look, but as she watched her seven year old self bossing her cousins around and telling them the rules of the game she'd just invented, she couldn't help but agree.

"Blimey, your hair was awful."

"Would you like to make a list?" Hermione snapped. "Go on, write down everything that's wrong with a seven year old child and I'll go and break it to her that there's a man who doesn't quite approve. I'm sure she'll be devastated."

"I'm sure she would," Tom said calmly. "After all, my opinion is worth that of about seven hundred intelligent people."

"Only to you."

He laughed. "Come on, let's go home. I don't think people take kindly to full grown adults watching children that aren't theirs."

"Fine," Hermione said with a sigh.

They got up from the bench, and she took one last longing look at her younger self - happy, laughing, without a care in the world - and followed Tom a little further down the path, where they could disapparate without fear of being seen.

The cottage was dark, even in the middle of the day, with the sun shining brightly. It had always been bad for natural light, with all the trees that surrounded it, and after their time in the park, the sun beating down on them, parched grass crunching underfoot, she found she couldn't just sit down and spend the afternoon indoors.

"Well where do you _want_ to go, then?" Tom asked.

"The beach?"

He pulled a face.

"Not like, actually going swimming and sunbathing and all of that, but we could just go for a walk along the seafront, it's a sunny day, would be a shame to waste it."

"I could show you the cave I went to when I was younger if you like."

Hermione bit her lip. "I'm not sure I really want to see it."

"Right...fine, fine..."

"There's so much connected to you that just holds such terrible memories for me, and I can't even tell you the half of it for another ten years or so. I'm _sorry_, but I just - "

"Let's just go to the beach," he said.

* * *

"I found out I was a witch today," Hermione said, turning her head on the pillow so she could see Tom.

He opened his eyes, and looked her up and down before replying. "Congratulations. It's a bit early for wine, but we could have a celebratory breakfast?"

"What were you thinking?"

"Erm...toast?"

"Right."

"We need more food, by the way."

"I gathered."

* * *

"_Nothing_ in the papers?" she threw the _Daily Prophet_ down onto the kitchen table and Tom turned around, eyebrows raised.

"About what?"

"The troll!" Hermione said indignantly. "Not one single mention of it!"

"What troll?"

"The troll that broke into Hogwarts last night! Or rather, was _let in_."

Tom finished pouring the tea, and sat down, passing Hermione a large red mug. "I believe this is the beginning of a rather interesting story. Continue."

Hermione chuckled, took a sip of her tea, and began telling the story.

Half a packet of biscuits later, Tom was staring at her, slack jawed. "_Wingardium Leviosa?_ You're _kidding!_"

Hermione shook her head.

"Three first years took out a troll? No way."

"Just you wait until the end of the year," Hermione said, draining the last of her now lukewarm tea, "I'll have a much better story then."

* * *

She was fidgeting. A lot.

She had barely touched her dinner, and now she couldn't settle. Tom had huffed several times at her restlessness, frowning when she got up and started pacing, and tutting when she refused to tell him what was wrong.

The trouble was, that night was very much a night left to chance. It was only by chance, that Dumbledore had seen fit to abandon his trip to the Ministry, and it was only by chance that he arrived in time to save Harry and the Philosopher's Stone from the clutches of Lord Voldemort.

She couldn't explain _why_ she felt the need to do it, but after plenty of hesitation, lots of umming and aahing, she finally grabbed her cloak, swung it round her shoulders and fastened it, before disapparating, leaving a mildly shocked Tom on the sofa, alone.

She arrived at the Ministry with a loud _crack, _not bothering to stop and admire the architecture. The golden fountain was still in place, the witch still wearing that same dimwitted smile she had when Hermione had visited in her fifth year, while the _Magic is Might_ statue was yet to even be considered.

Finally she saw him, dressed in over the top ruby coloured robes, his long silver beard tucked into his belt, he was strolling purposefully along next to Cornelius Fudge. She clenched her fist at the sight of him, then headed over, unaware of what exactly she was going to say.

"Professor, would I be able to talk to you, just for minute? It's rather urgent," she glanced at Fudge. "Sorry to interrupt Minister, but it is an issue of the utmost importance."

Dumbledore surveyed her, his blue eyes slightly wider than usual behind his half moon spectacles, before nodding. "Of course, Miss Mercer."

They moved aside, out of Fudge's earshot and it all came out in a rush. As soon as he heard to words 'trapdoor' and 'Harry', he informed her that he wished to see her the following morning in his office, then went over to Fudge, made his apologies, and disapparated.

Fudge frowned at her, took his lime green bowler hat from his head, and strode off, turning it over in his hands.

* * *

"You've certainly aged well."

"Thank you."

"I'm not sure I can say the same about myself, but can't complain. You seemed to disappear from the radar, if you pardon the muggle phrasing."

Hermione nodded.

"Are you going to divulge what you've been up to for the past few decades?"

"I can't."

"But everything has gone according to your memory, I presume?"

She nodded again.

"I wonder if Tom ever really _did_ want to be Minister you know..."

"He did," Hermione said quietly. "But these things don't always work out. I'm sure he'd do a much better job than Fudge."

Dumbledore smiled grimly. "I'm sure he would have. But he chose his path. I sometimes wonder if there was more I could have done."

"I don't think so," Hermione said, feeling, for the first time she could remember, uncomfortable in the Headmaster's presence.

He sighed. "No I don't suppose there was. I'm not sure there was ever any stopping him."

"Terrible shame, such a _lovely_ boy," Dippet's portrait had joined in the conversation, still stubbornly painting Tom as an angel, even after everything that had happened.

"Clever, Armando, and manipulative," Dumbledore corrected. "I'm not sure he was ever lovely."

"I should probably head off, " Hermione said, taking advantage of the gap in conversation and getting to her feet.

Dumbledore eyed her with suspicion, and she automatically heightened the defences around her mind.

"If you ever feel threatened, if you ever need somewhere to hide, somewhere you can be protected - if Lord Voldemort is trying to find you, and _use_ you - "

Hermione blanched. "Oh it's nothing like that Professor," she assured him, with enough honesty that he seemed satisfied. "I just can't tell you what I've been up to _yet_. I'm sure you'll find out the truth eventually. I just feel it's best to keep out of sight, especially now there's two of me running around."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"And you're not going to divulge the secret to your youth?"

"It's not mine to divulge," Hermione told him with a smile. She turned to leave, but paused, hesitating as her hand hovered over the door handle.

"Something else, Hermione?"

She turned back to face him, and leant against the door. She couldn't just walk out on him. This would be the last time she would see him. She needed to give him some sort of warning, some sort of _chance_.

"Fudge is going to make things difficult. You need to be prepared to act alone, and ride out the storm that follows."

"How long do we have?"

"A short while."

"How old will Harry be?"

"Not old enough."

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded, and left.

* * *

He coughed.

She didn't think much of it, but then he coughed again, eyes clamped shut in pain, hand pressed against his chest. He cried out, and Hermione abandoned her book, running over to him.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know! I -" he yelled again and curled himself into a ball, knees pressed against his chest, hands shaking as they covered his head.

Hermione glanced at the calendar and saw the date. Everything fell into place.

"Your diary's being destroyed," she told him softly. "I...this will pass, won't it? I'm sure _he_ didn't feel it, _he_ never knew when one was destroyed but - "

"But he's not _human_," Tom wheezed, clutching Hermione's arm, his knuckles white and his grip unbearably tight. She clamped her teeth against her bottom lip, trying to ignore the pain, and held him close.

It felt like a lifetime, but when she looked at the clock, it hadn't even been two minutes. His grip slackened, and his body shook, damp sweat covering his face and neck, dark patches on his shirt sticking to his body. He was pale, paler than she'd ever seen him, and his eyes remained closed as she levitated him upstairs to bed and curled up next to him, holding him close, because there was nothing else she could do.

* * *

For the first time, he had to confiscate her wand.

"He's a _boy!_" she argued. "He's just a _boy!_"

"Did he die?"

"Yes!" Hermione yelled, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Then he needs to die. You can't alter the - "

"To hell with the blasted time lines!" she shrieked. "He's seventeen, and Harry's in danger and - "

The vase on the mantel smashed, and they immediately fell silent.

"Keep your emotions under control," Tom said slowly, flicking his wand in the direction of the vase, which flew neatly back together and resumed its rightful position above the fireplace. "You have spent fifty years making sure everything goes to plan. We've sacrificed far too much for you to go and mess it up now."

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, head in her hands.

He was right, of course. But that didn't make it easy.

"Look," he sat down next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders, which she attempted to shrug off, but he persisted. "He's young, I get that, and it's a terrible tragedy, I get that, but if you remember Cedric Diggory dying in a graveyard, then Cedric Diggory must die in a graveyard. Harry must face _him_ alone. His death is important. Everyone will know how dire the situation is, they'll join together, and they'll fight. They'll fight for the the boy who wandered into the wrong graveyard."

Hermione laughed sardonically. "Oh that's what you think is it? You don't think Fudge will deny it all, will you? You don't think he'll try to discredit Dumbledore because it's all _so much nicer_ for everybody if they think they're lovely and safe? You don't think people will be too _scared_ to fight?"

"That bad?"

"Worse. A thousand times worse."

"It'll be okay, in the end."

"Maybe."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Almost at the end now! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not sure when the next one will be up. I haven't finished writing it yet and I've just moved into my first flat (yippee!) but won't be getting internet until the middle of October (boo!) but I'll try and get something up next week. I have a sporadic hotspot so hopefully it'll do me proud. Anyway, on the home stretch now, thanks for all your reviews from the last chapter, as I've said before, they do mean a lot and help motivate me like nothing else does. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"I can tell," he said simply.

"Tell what?" Hermione asked, slightly distracted while she brewed the ageing potion.

"That he's out there. The air's different. It's colder."

"Yeah..." Hermione said, concentrating as she sliced up a rat's tail into thin pieces, adding it to the mixture. "You'd best get used to it, it's only going to get worse."

"Right little ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

Hermione smiled weakly - it was the best she could manage these days - and didn't reply.

* * *

"Hermione."

"Hmm?"

"_Hermione,_" the word came out in a choke the second time, and Hermione dropped her book, rushing over to where Tom was sat, his knuckles popping under his skin as he gripped the arms of the chair. His jaw was clenched his eyes staring straight ahead, not wanting to betray any flicker of pain, any feeling at all.

She knew, of course, what it was, and immediately felt guilty for wondering if Dumbledore was okay. But of course he was, he had Snape, it was his job to deal with Dumbledore, and her job to deal with Tom.

"It must be the ring," he wheezed, eyes shut tightly now, his entire body curved forward as Hermione helplessly rubbed his back, trying to soothe the dark magic away.

He was dealing with it in a more restricted way this time, and Hermione supposed it was because this time, he knew exactly what was happening, he knew he would be all right eventually, and, no matter how painful it was at the time, it would _stop_.

After a short while, he let out a sigh, his body sagging against Hermione as the pain left and the tiredness took over. Once more, she levitated him upstairs, into bed, and curled up against him, holding his still trembling body as close as she could.

* * *

He spread the newspaper out on the table, smoothing the creases. "Look."

Hermione glanced over, recognising the headline.

"Fudge has finally accepted it then? I suppose that's a good sign, isn't it?"

Hermione skewed her lips. "It seems so."

"But..."

"But there's a lot of panic about, people don't know what to think and they won't talk to each other because they don't know who they can trust."

"So they all live in ignorance and fear while he gets stronger and stronger."

"Exactly."

He sighed, and began reading the full article.

"You get a mention," he said, a minute or so later. "It lists you all, but focuses on Harry, mostly. Says you'd all broken into the Ministry."

"Yes well, after the amount of damage they've done to Harry and Dumbledore's reputation this year it's not exactly sacred ground."

"I wasn't telling you _off_," Tom told her, "I'm actually rather proud."

She felt her cheeks tinge red and looked away.

* * *

She couldn't stop the tears. They spilled out, without permission, falling onto the newspaper, wetting the photograph of Dumbledore in the right hand corner.

"What?" Tom asked as he walked into the kitchen. He took one look at the headline and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Oh."

"How?"

"He was murdered. By Snape."

"The Potions Master?"

She nodded.

"So...Dumbledore's dead, Death Eaters break into Hogwarts, am I right in thinking things are about to get a whole lot worse?"

Hermione wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yeah."

* * *

She looked at the calendar, and then the clock on the kitchen wall. She knew perfectly well it was the right day, but that didn't stop her checking the date, which had only been circled in red to show it was in any way significant. It could have been a birthday, an anniversary, a hospital appointment, but no. It was none of those things.

"Now?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know what you're worrying about, I'll stroll in there, kill him – "

"No!"

Tom frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"You can't kill him straight away!"

"Why not?"

"Because there's something _vital_ he has to do first, you'll know what it is when you see it, but he has to do it, otherwise this all falls to pieces..." Hermione ran her shaking fingers through her bushy hair for the thousandth time that night and stared into the bottom of her tea cup.

"What does he have to do?"

"You know I can't tell you," she said tersely, features set in her classic look of disapproval. "I can't believe you _still_ ask questions you know I can't answer."

"So I go in," Tom said, ignoring her mini lecture, "and then, what, duel a bit?"

"Yeah, I guess so. My memory's hazy."

"_Hazy? _Your memory's _hazy?_"

"You'll know why when you get there," she said tiredly, trailing her finger around the rim of her cup, searching for some sort of distraction.

"Right. Of _course_. Then I finish him off once he's done his _vital bit_, and then come back here and go to bed. Yes?"

"Hopefully, yes."

"What d'you mean hopefully?"

"Well, let's hope you manage to beat him."

"_What_?"

"What d'you mean _what_?"

"You're hoping? You don't _know_?" Tom's eyes were wide with panic and he took a step towards her, anxious for her answer.

"Well...no. Not really," Hermione kept her gaze pointing downwards. She didn't want to look at him, not when she'd just broken that carefully concealed bit of news to him.

"So he might kill me?"

"I suppose he might."

"Well who won?"

"I _don't know!_" Hermione yelled, standing abruptly, her chair flying backwards and taking a chunk out of the wall as it collided with it. "I don't know because I wasn't there until the end! All right? You might win. You might not. I can't tell you."

"You _left_?"

"He sent me back to _you!_"

Tom's shoulders sagged and he let out a breath of understanding, mouth still ajar as he watched her, over-bright brown eyes glaring up at him, fists clenched into shaking balls and her jaw set stubbornly, with only the slightest hint of a wobble as she tried to contain herself. He collapsed into a chair, elbows resting on the table, head in his hands.

"I could die."

"Yes."

"And you're all right with that?" he looked up at her, and it was quite obvious that she was very much _not_ all right with it, but he needed to hear her say it.

"The world needs you."

"And you don't?"

"I'm part of the world."

"Yes but if I _die_, the world won't have needed me because I would have failed, and you would still have lost me."

"Dying isn't necessarily failing."

"Oh _really_?"

"It might be that you loosen the lid of the jar, so to speak, but don't manage to make the final turn, but someone else can come along and –"

"Claim all the credit," he said.

"Oh for _Merlin's sake!_ Do you really care about _credit?_"

He didn't reply.

"Just because I didn't see the outcome it doesn't mean you lost," Hermione said quietly after a short silence. Her hands were now dug deep in the pockets of her jeans, and she kept flicking her eyes between the tiled floor and Tom's hunched figure. "You were always better than him."

"I know _that_, but it's not necessarily about being _better_. It's about luck. You say Potter escaped him when he was fourteen and surrounded by Death Eaters?"

"Yeah," Hermione answered, stomach shrinking uncomfortably. Tom was skilled. Far more skilled than Voldemort, but he was right, it _was_ about luck, talent was only a very small part of it.

"Was Potter a better wizard than Lord Voldemort at the age of fourteen?"

"No."

"So Potter's lucky."

"Depends how you look at it," Hermione said with a shrug. "I'd say he was hellishly unlucky."

Tom frowned, mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words but failed. Eventually he settled on "_What_?"

"Well, how many boys had both their parents murdered, got sent to live with ghastly relatives and from the age of eleven had yearly run ins with a mass murderer who was hell bent on finishing him off?"

"I see your point. But he always manages to slither out of said run ins." Tom looked up at the clock. "Now?"

Hermione turned her attention in the same direction as his. "Yeah. Now."

Tom stood up, wand clasped in a steady hand. "I might not come back."

"I know." She bit her lip and closed her eyes. After a stressful evening of marking off the exact points when her friends' lives were being snuffed out, left right and centre, a solitary tear slid down her cheek. She wasn't prepared to lose someone else. Not today. Not now. Not after they'd waited so long for peace.

He grabbed her roughly by the back of the neck and pulled her close to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead and resting his chin on the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, squeezing her eyes shut to keep herself from breaking down completely. She had spent over fifty years of her life with Tom Riddle and it wasn't enough. It didn't even come close, and now, she had to face losing him.

For a second, the most selfish part of her suggested that she told him not to go, but she stifled it. She had to let him go, if she didn't, there would be no point in him living anyway. There would be no point in _either_ of them living. Lord Voldemort's world was no place anyone bar himself would like to live, and so she pulled away, letting him go and keeping her head bowed so he couldn't see her blotchy, tear stained cheeks.

He didn't say anything, and, when she looked up, Hermione could see fear in his eyes for the very first time.

"I love you."

His face melted into a smirk, all traces of apprehension vanishing in that moment, as he turned to her and said "Frankly Hermione, that doesn't surprise me."

He turned on the spot, and was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** This is it now. End of the road. Thank you, everyone, who has hung around and stuck with this story. I hope this last chapter satisfies you. Let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Tempora Abducto.**

**by Flaignhan. **

* * *

Harry approached the limp, pale body lying on the floor with caution, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, wand held firmly in his hand, prepared for any sudden curses.

They never came.

His robes were sodden with blood, his red eyes open and glassy, unseeing. There were no two ways about it - Lord Voldemort was most certainly dead.

Harry crouched down, tugging the Elder Wand from his ghostly, long fingered hand, before slipping it into the pocket of his robes.

"Harry, where is she? What's he done to her?"

He turned back to Ron, who was kneeling at the spot where Hermione had been, a mere thirty seconds ago. On those long, hard nights on the run, when his mood was at its lowest point, he had always concentrated on the joy he would feel when it was all over. When the weight of the world was no longer on his shoulders, when people, regardless of their parentage, could walk the wizarding world without fear of being thrown into Azkaban, when nobody had to live in fear of torture or death anymore. He had imagined it would be the best feeling in the world, but now, with Lord Voldemort, dead at his feet, Hermione gone, without them knowing whether she was dead or alive, and the tables piled high with the corpses of the brave witches and wizards they had lost on this most horrific of days...he couldn't even bring himself to feel relieved that it was over.

And the nagging question still remained - what in the name of Merlin had Tom Riddle been doing there?

Before he knew what was happening, before he even considered dealing with the mess in the Great Hall, he was sprinting towards the door, out in the to the Entrance Hall, past the solid oak doors, down the steps, tripping on a loose paving stone but regaining his balance quickly. He kept running, even though his legs felt like jelly and he hadn't slept for what felt like an eternity. Soon, he reached the large stone columns, where the gates of Hogwarts should have been. He skidded to a stop, confused. He looked around, spotting one twisted gate laying a good hundred feet from where it should have been, while the other was nowhere to be seen.

"It's over? I couldn't just sit there, I tried, but I just - "

"It's all right, he's gone, for good, just...oh thank _Merlin_ you're okay..."

"_Me_? What _about_ me? Of course _I'm_ okay!"

Harry's eyes widened, recognising both voices. He stumbled past the stone columns, and there, standing behind half a winged boar, was Tom Riddle, clutching a girl with bushy brown hair so tightly it looked as though she might break.

He kissed her, and Harry had to look away. Something was very wrong, the tender touches, the desperate hugs, none of it added up. Tom broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Hermione's, their eyes staring into each other, oblivious of their audience. The stomach acid rose in Harry's throat, and his eyes began to burn. After _everything_ that had happened today, after all that everybody had _been through_ he had to walk out and find _this_? Tom Riddle, _kissing_ his _best friend_?

When he realised that there were no words appropriate to the situation, he cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly.

Both Tom and Hermione jumped, wands drawn in milliseconds and aimed at Harry, who didn't even bother to draw his own.

"Oh..._Harry!_" Hermione dropped her wand and threw herself at him in a hug so fierce that Harry stumbled back with the force of it.

He tried to hug her back, but he felt numb, confused, _betrayed_, even.

"Hermione...what the - "

She pulled away from him, straightening her t shirt as she looked down at the ground. "This must look...I'd like to go and see Dumbledore's portrait, if that's okay? We'll explain then?"

Harry eyed Tom suspiciously, and Hermione glanced nervously between the two of them.

"Whatever you're thinking, it's _not true_."

"I'm thinking he opened the Chamber of Secrets and murdered Myrtle..." he was glaring at Tom now, who met his eyes with an unreadable expression.

"Well..._look_, I'll explain when we can talk to Dumbledore as well. It's a long story, and I'm not sure I've got the energy to tell it twice today."

"I don't under-"

"You will _soon_, let's go and see Dumbledore."

Harry's skin crawled as he watched her, take the hand of a man who had murdered _so many people, _like she was completely unaware of the fact that it had been _his fault_ that she had spent half of her second year petrified. Their fingers laced together and Harry's fists clenched into balls at his sides.

"I promise there's an explanation," Hermione said. "Trust me, please."

Harry couldn't even begin to imagine what sort of explanation would make this situation seem _all right_, but exhausted as he was, he followed the pair of them silently, his energy levels far too low to even consider taking any sort of action.

Besides, Tom Riddle, unlike Lord Voldemort, had been in his company for more than a few minutes, yet hadn't tried to murder him yet.

That was a promising start.

They reached the crumbled stone gargoyle that had once guarded Dumbledore's office, but was now lying rather pathetically on its side. They stepped through the passageway and climbed the spiral staircase, the heavy wooden door at the top opening automatically, as though they were expected.

It was silent when they entered. Eyes from every portrait stared at them curiously, glancing to Dumbledore's portrait every other moment, as though waiting for him to give them an idea of how to react.

"Take a seat," he said, waving his arm at the empty chairs in the office.

A lump rose in Harry's throat. He had not been prepared for seeing him so soon after their exchange at King's Cross, after he had found out so much more about him, after he had become so very human, brilliant and average all at the same time.

"I think, perhaps, we should make ourselves comfortable? I'm sure Miss Granger has a very long and thrilling story to tell."

Harry frowned, and noticed that Hermione's cheeks had reddened, just a little.

"It's not actually _that_ interesting Professor."

"Forgive me Hermione, but I do feel you are rather selling yourself short. You turn up here with Tom, looking, perhaps ten years older than you did when you left school, and Lord Voldemort is lying dead in the Great Hall. I believe this will be a story of epic proportions."

He hadn't noticed before Dumbledore had mentioned it. Hermione _did_ look older. She was no longer a teenager, but a fully grown woman. Her brown eyes looked older than that though. They looked tired, and a sense of unease lingered about them.

"Well," she began, glancing at Harry nervously. "The spell that Voldemort cast on me sent me back in time. Back to _Tom's_ time. And...well, Tom being Tom, he worked it all out rather quickly."

"Back in..." Harry couldn't finish his sentence. Back to Tom's time would have been over fifty years. None of it added up, it was like he'd been given a bunch of numbers and was told they equalled zero.

"You have to bear with me," she said, "it's a _long_ story."

He nodded, glancing over to the emotionless stare of Tom, trying to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the site of that neat side parting, those long, dexterous hands, and the feeling that he knew everything about you, just by looking at you.

"So, we left school, and rented a cottage, far out of sight. Tom was working at Borgin and Burke's, because that was how it had happened in my memory, _not_," she looked at Harry again, "because he wanted to. I made him. He had to follow the time lines. And that was the same with everything, with getting hold of the locket, getting the...cup."

Tom looked down at the floor, as though he was...ashamed of himself. But he couldn't be. He didn't know what shame was.

"Once he'd got the cup," Hermione continued, "he left. He was gone for four years."

Dumbledore nodded. None of this was news to him, nor Harry. What _was_ news, however, was the fact that Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle were in the same building at the same time, though one, admittedly, was now dead.

"We had an idea of splitting the body. Tom didn't want to be Lord Voldemort. He _never_ wanted to."

"Oh and the Chamber was just a bit of a joke was it?" Harry blurted out hotly, unable to believe that Hermione was painting a picture of a saintly Tom Riddle who had never _really_ wanted to kill anybody.

"It was a mistake. I was young, I got carried away with power. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore is familiar with the feeling...well, at least, according to _Rita Skeeter_ he is."

Harry's stomach twisted at the mention of Dumbledore's darker beginnings.

Hermione gave Tom a sharp look and he sunk back in his seat, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair.

"So you split the body?" Dumbledore asked, intrigued.

Hermione shook her head. "We...got somebody else. Somebody who _wanted _to do all the things Lord Voldemort did...would do. Oh, you know what I mean," she waved an impatient hand as she tried to get her head around talking about her past and the future in the same sentence.

Harry sat up straighter at this. Somebody else? Lord Voldemort was _not_ Tom Riddle?

"Who?" Armando Dippet asked in his wheezy voice.

"Arcturus," Tom said casually, his voice a smooth, even, almost caramel-like sound, as opposed to a high, cold, mocking tone.

"Arcturus Black?" Phineas Nigellus had been silent until now.

Tom nodded.

"That doesn't make sense."

Everyone turned to look at Harry.

"I can speak Parseltongue," he said, and, understanding, Dumbledore turned his attention back to Tom, who had merely raised an eyebrow as though this was an insignificant point to make.

"Harry was a horcrux," Dumbledore explained, and Hermione's hand shot to her mouth in shock, her eyes wide. "As such, he inherited a few of Lord Voldemort's more...special talents."

"Arcturus spoke Parseltongue. That's what took the longest, but Hermione was adamant that he learn it."

"Learn it?" Harry asked. "You can _learn_ Parseltongue?"

"You can learn French if you really want to, though I don't see why you would," Tom said, his nose scrunching in distaste. "I taught him almost everything I knew," he continued. "The horcruxes damaged him far more than they ever damaged me. I had two, he had...five, in the end. He took a lot of potions, cast a lot of dark magic, and not all of it worked out as he intended, hence the unfortunate nature of his looks..."

"So," Dumbledore said, putting his fingertips together, his blue eyes piercing through them, despite the fact that he was only an oil painting. "Lord Voldemort was _not _Tom Riddle? Yet you still had horcruxes?"

"I made two before I met Hermione. The ring and...the diary. They've both been destroyed, I understand?"

Dumbledore nodded. "It seems you found a different way to live forever."

"A potion," Tom explained. "Hermione didn't want to return to her friends an old woman, and so, eventually, we invented a potion. We took apart the theory of the _Impediment Jinx_, it's suspended us as we were when we first took the potion. We're not invincible, but we're young."

"You're going to be young...forever?" Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I just want my life back. Once I _should_ be thirty, then I'll stop taking it."

"You can't let the secret get out," Dumbledore said. "Death is the only certainty in life. You can't take it away."

"Of course not," Tom said. "And apart from that, everywhere would be so overcrowded there wouldn't be any room to breathe. This is simply for Hermione and myself."

"So if you didn't make a living from ageing solutions," Dumbledore said, "how did you?"

Hermione smiled for the first time. "The Standard Book of Spells."

Dumbledore nodded, his lips curved into a smile as though it had been the answer he expected. "Of course. There was never a Miranda Goshawk at Hogwarts, but nobody ever looked into it."

"It couldn't have been anybody else," Dippet said assuredly, "the two brightest students Hogwarts has seen in almost a century, of _course_ they wrote the most important set of text books in the curriculum. Of _course_."

Hermione blushed slightly and looked at the floor.

"Hang on," Harry said. "I still don't understand. Tom's not Voldemort, so it's all right that he killed Myrtle and framed Hagrid? It's all right that he killed Hepzibah Smith?"

"Of course it's not all right," Hermione said sharply. "But he's spent over fifty years putting his own ambitions aside and just risked his own life to save the entire wizarding world, so I think he's redeemed himself, don't you?"

Harry said nothing. He couldn't deny that she had a point, and the steely glare and sharp tone that he often associated with Mrs Weasley told him that arguing was not advised. Even so, he had spent his entire wizarding life believing that the man sitting on the other side of the room was the man who had killed his parents, had tried to kill him several times, and was responsible for more evils than it was possible to imagine.

And here Hermione was, telling him that it was Arcturus Black.

Black.

"Arcturus," he said suddenly. "Isn't he related to Sirius? His uncle or something?"

"I'm afraid so. And, though I had never considered the possibility before, it seems only natural that Arcturus would take that path," Dumbledore said solemnly. "I imagine a manticore attack was the only way to make the victim unrecognisable?"

Tom shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking around the room. "He was a muggle. He'd been hit by a car. He was almost dead. We...finished it. It didn't take much to make it look like a manticore attack, he was in a pretty bad way."

Dumbledore nodded, while Dippet's eyebrows had risen high on his forehead.

"So what happens now?" Hermione asked. "Do we tell people? Or do we just keep him hidden?" She looked up at Dumbledore's portrait, her eyes willing him to give her the answer both she and Tom wanted to hear, while Harry merely watched, unconcerned with whatever the verdict may be.

"Well, you can't very well cast a memory charm on everybody in the Great Hall, can you?" Dumbledore said. "And besides, the witches and wizards of our world need to know the full story of how they were saved. I'm not saying they'll believe it -" there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he surveyed them, "but they need to be told. And both you and Tom need your lives back, I presume?"

"Yes," Hermione said, sighing in relief as her face broke into a smile. "No more hiding."

"Perhaps you'd like to teach, Tom?" Dippet suggested, and Tom looked up at his former Headmaster curiously.

"Will I be allowed?"

"Oh I should imagine so, and Hermione, you'd be an asset to the staff, I don't doubt!"

Again, Hermione's cheeks reddened. "Thank you Professor," she said quietly. "We'll consider it."

"What's to consider?" Tom asked abruptly. "I want to get out of that damn cottage. I want to come back _here_."

"Will parents want him teaching their kids? You said they might not believe the truth."

"There are very few people who were ever of the opinion that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort were one and the same. And after today I don't think anybody would dare question where his loyalties lie."

"Where _do_ they lie, exactly?" Harry asked, speaking directly to Tom for the first time.

"With Hermione."

"And I think that's good enough for all of us," Dumbledore said, in a way that suggested that Harry was not to argue. "I'm very proud of you Tom. And you, Hermione, and of course, you as well, Harry. You have all risen far beyond what was ever expected of you, and I cannot think of three people better suited to leading our world into a new era."

A lump formed in Harry's throat as the day's events slowly sunk in. Now, he felt the relief he had been waiting for. Now, he felt hope, jubilation and an odd sense of calm, that he assumed was due to his tiredness.

"So..." Harry began, his face twisting as he broached the awkward subject. He looked at Tom, who was watching Hermione intently. "Are you two...like..." he couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. His stomach tied itself in knots and he knew it would take a long time for him to be able to accept Tom as a...well, technically he was a hero.

"Yes," Hermione said simply. "He's not Lord Voldemort, Harry. He's his own man, and he's a good man."

Tom's eyes narrowed, as though he didn't like being described as a 'good man'.

"Right," Harry said tiredly.

"Harry, I've spent over fifty years with him. I _know _him. He's not dangerous. Not remotely dangerous."

Fifty years was a long time, there was no denying that. He had always trusted Hermione's judgement before, and now it was going to take a huge leap of faith to be able to accept these new circumstances. He was helped, of course, by the fact that Tom had just strolled right into the Great Hall, his first concern being the younger Hermione, then killed Lord Voldemort, right in front of everyone's eyes.

"Harry," Tom broke the silence. "She's the only person that's ever mattered to me. I'm not going to do anything that would make her angry or upset, and that pretty much covers every aspect of world domination. _Not _that I'm interested in _that_. You saw what happened to Arcturus, only a fool would chase a goal like that."

Harry surveyed him curiously. He was, as Harry knew all too well, an expert liar. But Hermione was no fool, and she certainly wouldn't spend fifty years being a fool. Tom leaned forward and whispered something in Hermione's ear, and she smiled.

Suddenly, Harry was reminded of the last few moments of Voldemort's life, when Tom had whispered in his ear, while hundreds of witches and wizards looked on.

"What did you say to him? Before you killed him?" he asked.

"Who?" Hermione asked, looking between Tom and Harry. "Voldemort?"

"Yeah, he said something to him."

Tom shifted in his seat. "It doesn't matter."

Both Harry and Hermione stared expectantly at him, and he fidgeted.

"I'd just seen him _torturing_ her. And he'd just cast an insanely difficult spell very badly, I was _worried_, all right?"

"What did you say?" Harry persisted.

"I told him if he'd done any lasting damage I'd bring him back to life so I could tear him limb from limb and kill him _again._ Are you happy?" he crossed his arms over his chest, staring determinedly at one of the few spots on the wall that wasn't covered by a portrait of a previous headmaster.

Oddly enough, Harry _was _happy. As bizarre a threat it had been, it was strangely heartfelt, almost (and Harry felt entirely wrong for even thinking it) _romantic._

Hermione reached out to place her hand on Tom's, and he glanced at it, then laced their fingers together in one smooth movement.

"I believe there is a feast starting shortly," Dumbledore said, his lips curving into a smile. "Go, enjoy it."

The three of them got up, and as they left, Harry heard Dumbledore say something to Dippet.

"No wonder he was so upset whenever I called him Tom."

Harry smiled, and followed Tom and Hermione, who were still holding hands (and the image didn't bother him as it had half an hour previously) down the spiral staircase and out into the corridor.

Now Dumbledore mentioned it, he _was_ rather hungry.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
